


I'd walk thousand miles, just to slip this skin

by Anuna



Series: the inhumans 'verse [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Coming to Terms with the Past, F/M, Grief, Introspection, M/M, Mourning, Multi, Polyamory Relationship, Post Season 3, no love triangles, obviously not canon compliant, or at least trying, rating and pairings will change, which should focus on healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8567899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: Here's the deal, she thinks. Grant wanted to be a hero. And there's also this – Lincoln never wanted to be one. He simply wanted to live.She feels like she'd ruined both of them.





	1. Atlantic city

**Author's Note:**

> This happens when I want these three to get healing, comfort and a happy ending. Part 1 of the series.

everything dies baby, that's a fact

maybe everything that dies someday comes back 

(bruce springsteen, _atlantic city_ )

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She likes to drive during the night, find a lonesome spot and park her van, to observe the world and keep her radio quietly on. The playlist consists of artists that would normally be dull, sad or both. These days they're just fitting. She has ditched Nick Cave album in favor of Simon and Garfunkel, and they're on their third round. Or maybe it's the fourth. She knows the music is old, seriously old, but it sounds timeless.

 

They sound like something Ward could have enjoyed.

 

 

She's not that good at avoiding thinking about him all the time. She used to be an expert in that routine.

 

It's been ages since she did this, ages since she drove around in a van with nothing but darkness and quiet music around her. Those days feel like a faraway dream that might have never been a reality. She can barely remember the feeling of living without the constant painful hole gaping somewhere inside of her. The steering wheel under her hands is equally crappy as the one of her old van. It's a good ride, though. There's something about the old, rickety Wolksvagen vehicle. It's reliable and sturdy, economic in its spending of gas. In fact it reminds her of someone. (She does a hard job not to think about that. It's futile. He's everywhere.)

 

(They're everywhere. Everywhere she looks, anything she tries to think about.  _Both_ of them.)

 

The Volkswagen is inconspicuous enough. Just a nondescript old thing on the street, looking as grey and faded as its surroundings. There's value in blending in and disappearing like that. She knew that even before SHIELD, but with them she truly mastered the trade.

 

(There's one person in particular she should have thanked to. _No_ , she doesn't want to think about that).

 

There's this one station that plays old music. Just old music, ancient music that feels like something that might have fallen off Coulson's shelves. She thinks about Coulson, sometimes, turns around in her head everything that he told her, taught her, everything that he did for her. Every time he protected her. She is not a child and she is not a fool; she is very far away from the naïve girl who stepped starry eyed into the organization that was supposed to  _protect_ . Yet she can't find in herself to hate Coulson. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe she should be angry on Ward's behalf, because she knows now. She understands what happened, how and why. 

 

Ward sneaks up to her in her thoughts, seamlessly like a shadow  in which she's hiding now. She wonders how well she knew him, and she wonders how much of what she knew is true,  _was_ true, real him, and even though there's still a part of her mind telling her that it was all a lie, she knows deep inside that she has seen him. 

 

It's what drew him out, convinced him to try to connect with her for that brief, fleeting time. The fact that she has  _seen_ him, has seen that part of him everyone else had denied. (And then she denied him as well). 

 

It's ironic how she never learned what kind of music he liked. Not that it's an important thing. It would just make his memory more real, more... something. Something she could hold onto and say,  _this part was true_ .

 

 

 

And then she thinks about Lincoln. That's different. She feels she's supposed to think about him. She isn't sure why Ward and him have become connected in her mind, apart from the obvious – which somehow doesn't seem fair to her. (It doesn't seem fair that they didn't get _more_. M;ore days and years. More chances.)

 

Lincoln never let her down. He didn't hurt her, he didn't turn his back on her even when she did it to him –  _you were brainwashed, Daisy – So was Ward, she remembers herself saying –_ and then it dawns on her. She did to Lincoln what Ward has done to her, more or less, but Lincoln did not for one minute even think about cutting her off, cutting into her, cutting her apart for the pain she caused him. And she did cause him pain. The reason why doesn't matter. (Ward's reasons didn't matter to her -  _it just hurt_ . He was her everything back then, she realizes. When she thinks about this and looks into the mirror she can almost see Lincoln's eyes. 

 

He's gone.)

 

He didn't hurt her back.

 

He gave her life instead. _His life_. His _life_ for _hers_.

 

She _took_ Ward's, in all the ways that mattered.

 

Of all the things that had happened, of all the things his former team has done to him, what she did had to hurt him the most.

 

And the worst thing? When she remembers seeing him the last time, when she remembers his face, she knows that he never held it against her. (Just like Lincoln didn't. ) God, Ward was almost proud of her. No, no – he _was_ proud of her. He was watching her quake the room full of Hydra agents like she was some fucking miracle, and to him she _was._

 

Simon and Garfunkel sing about a bridges as she sits in the darkness, thinking of dead men. There is just one conclusion she can draw.

 

That she didn't deserve either of them.

 

*

 

So what do you do when all you can do with your hands is destroy things around you?

 

It's actually simple, she finds. You keep to yourself and you find things that need to be destroyed.

 

*

 

It takes some time, but eventually she finds herself cradled in the sound of Ward's voice. She remembers his lessons, Being An Agent 101 – assessing the situation, making plans for the action, choosing which plan to use. Making a call. Staying away. Everything she can do virtually, behind a computer, she does like that.

 

There was always one thing that Ward tried to teach her – making the call is the most important thing to do. In the end it doesn't matter if it was the right call – sometimes it's not, sometimes it can't be. Most often, it's impossible to know what's right. The best you can do is what has to be done.

 

And the person deciding that is _you._ All of Coulson's talk about greater good seems so hypocritical right now.

 

She can see the slippery slope of this logic so easily. She can see a lot now, from the distance. Everything she did for SHIELD at the time felt right, because it was for SHIELD - as if the organization, which she came to equate with heroism, meant that nothing done in their name could ever be wrong. Now she takes a long, hard look in the mirror at the end of the day and admits herself that something she has done was wrong.

 

She thinks how she considered Ward a hero. And he was, in her eyes, at least until her eyes were innocent and unknowing. He was the biggest, the best. She believed _in_ him, and one of the things she liked the best? He was so mindful of all his actions. Her adoration was blind, but his knowledge of himself was humble. Later she believed – _made_ herself believe – that it was a hypocritical act, all just to keep her naïve and believing and vulnerable. It wasn't though. She knows now.

 

 

*

 

Sometimes she can see them both in the mirror, like shadows, faces almost faded from her memory.

 

She wakes up one morning, dreaming (thinking, believing) Lincoln is next to her. For a moment she wants to indulge this dream, pull at the worn threads of her memory, relive the way he used to touch her when she was barely opening her eyes and he was there. She wakes abruptly, because the way he tasted eludes her this time around, and she breathes harshly realizing that she can't. Can't find the memory of his taste. That she must have torn it up, used all of it, like an old blanket. Nothing can keep you warm forever, she thinks, and swings her legs down to the floor. The motel room is neat for a change, tidy and clean, but on the bland side. The only familiar object there her bag that she hasn't touched yet. Inside, the soft sleeveless shirt that reaches the middle of her thighs. She presses it against her face and makes herself imagine. The scent that isn't there any more. (It has to be, though. He can't be gone, not all of him, not the tiniest particles of what made him so unique and kind and much better person than she can ever be.)

 

*

 

She knows what kind of person she can be.

 

What she already is.

 

Ruthless. ( _As if one shot wasn't enough, she fired four._ )

 

Cruel. ( _You should have ran faster_ ).

 

A person she wishes she couldn't recognize. Instead, now she admits, the sins written on her palms are so similar to _his_ – the blood, the people she hurt, the lives she took.

 

Only a year ago she was convincing herself to despise him. Now she knows she has become more like Grant Ward than she ever dreamed possible.

 

*

 

Here's the deal, she thinks. Grant wanted to be a hero.

 

And there's also this – Lincoln never wanted to be one. He simply wanted to live.

 

She feels like she ruined both of them.

 

*

 

SHIELD now hunts her.

 

Of course they do.

 

She's pretty sure Ward would laugh.

 

*

 

She thinks she has found some semblance of peace. It's not exactly peace - it's some state of mind where she doesn't actively suffer, under the condition of not invoking certain memories. A way to exist without wishes, without longing and connecting. Her very own black kevlar, a shiny hull instead of skin that can keep her safe.

 

She thinks that she is safe.

 

She is wrong.

 

*

 

The air around her still tastes like ash and dust. She remembers trying to get up. She remembers Mack sneaking into the room ( _she is on the base_ ), trying to explain something and handing her a gun. She remembers him telling her to run away and that things are different now. Well, that much she has noticed.

 

But as her vision clears she thinks something can't be right. She _has_ to be dead. She doesn't remember what came before. There was another room. A white room. And there... was Simmons. And she remembers, she didn't like the white room.

 

She didn't escape, and that one agent she doesn't know _did_ shoot her and now she's dead and if she's dead why does stuff still hurt? That's a pretty unfair thing, considering she's most definitely dead.

 

“Please, Daisy, stay still,” she hears, and that's _his_ voice. Lincoln. She can... _see him_. Like, _physically see him_ , every sharp detail of his face and his skin. It's not like memories, blurred and faded. He looks different and he looks thin, he has a beard, and kinda looks like crap, but that's him, and he _can't_ be alive. He is stardust. Him and Ward, fucking stardust.

 

“She thinks you can't be alive,” the other voice offers helpfully.

 

At that point she thinks someone is playing a pretty cruel joke with her. Did SHIELD put her in some kind of hallucination device? What – oh God. She vaguely remembers being tied to a bed.

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Lincoln answers, glancing at Ward like it's normal. Like it's the most normal thing ever.

 

“Skye,” Ward says.

 

“It's Daisy,” Lincoln supplies, and yes, that's _Lincoln_ , and that's _Ward_ with him, and they're looking at her worriedly, and Lincoln is poking around her head and then she remembers, she hit her head – that has to explain things. Ward is handing him gauzes, and Lincoln is being in his doctor mode and... it feels like an impossible parallel universe. “She likes Daisy better,” Lincoln says softly, as if its for both hers and Ward's sake. He gestures between Ward and himself. “We, um. We survived. Ward and I,” he tells her with a smile. “But you're hurt.”

 

“It's me, Skye,” Ward says, and then adds, “Daisy. It's not... that thing. It's _me_.”

 

And smiles just a little.

 

She remembers that little smile. It makes her head spin back to the time long gone.

 

She still remembers butterflies it used to give her.

 

Oh _God._

 

She _must_ be dead.

 

 

*

 

Next time she wakes up, she's lying on a hard, narrow cot and the ground beneath her seems to move. It takes her a good while until she figures it out.

 

Train, she thinks.

 

She looks to the side and sees Ward and Lincoln sitting on the floor not too far from her. They're sitting next to each other. This must be a cargo car. She can feel the fresh air on her face. She can feel the movement. She shifts a little and looks to the side, and she can see the sky through the train car door.

 

It feels like she's stuck in a shitty, old western movie.

 

For a moment nothing seems to worry her. She is too tired, and nothing makes sense anyway.

 

Then she falls asleep again.

 

*

 

Next time she wakes up is after a long effort to cling to her consciousness and stay awake. She doesn't know what's wrong with her and why her body feels so powerless, but when she wakes, she's alone in a clean, neat room. It's not big, but it feels comfortable. There's a window letting her know that there are trees and sunshine outside.

 

Getting up is more like crawling out of bed, and when she manages this, she falls over.

 

Instantly, someone is with her.

 

“I knew it,” he says.

 

Lincoln.

 

He's trying to gently lift her up. Finally another pair of hands join him, and then she's placed back on the bed. She's not quite ready to face either of them – Ward in particular.

 

Lincoln takes over the talking. “You have to take it easy,” he says. “And I know this feels very weird, but we can explain.” He looks at Ward. “Mostly.”

 

“Mostly?” she asks. She's sitting back on the bed, thank God, she's sitting back. The room is spinning. The men share another look. Almost like there's some private joke going on. “God. How can this be real?”

 

“Well... we actually don't know,” Lincoln says and looks at Ward again. Like they're _allies_ or something.

 

“I woke up on the ground in front of this house and he was next to me,” Ward says. “He was injured.”

 

“He helped,” Lincoln adds.

 

“Helped?” she asks. Ward looks down, at his hands.

 

“Made sure I didn't die.”

 

That sounds like a vague explanation if there ever was any. She is almost to tired to look at them, and something definitely doesn't feel right, but she can't help herself when she asks her next question.

 

“Funny. I'd expect him to do the opposite.”

 

Ward sighs. It looks and sounds exasperated, almost identical to Agent Grant Ward. The guy who was her SO. It makes her remember when she last talked about her SO, and she doesn't want to remember that day, or the days that followed.

 

“He doesn't remember a lot of things,” Lincoln says.

 

That does make her look at both of them. Ward is trying to avoid her eyes, but at one point meets her halfway. She can't help a surge of bitterness. “Nice. So you get to be spared of the stuff you did to us, and I get to remember it?”

 

He closes his eyes for a moment and then looks at her. She can see his regret, she can almost touch it, and her mind is screaming at her not to trust him, but it feels futile. She is tired. She is just _so tired._

 

“It's not exactly like that,” he says. “I'll go. I don't want to make you even more upset. You should rest,” he says.

 

He puts his hand on Lincoln's shoulder, briefly, and then leaves.

 

“You... believe him?” she asks, staring at Lincoln and her mind not quite processing it – the way he's looking at her, the thick beard covering his face, the flannel shirt he's wearing.

 

“It's not simple,” Lincoln says. “We'll explain everything you want to know,” he's arranging the pillows behind her head and tucking her in and her body feels so heavy. He smiles, briefly, and strokes the side of her face. “But first you gotta rest. I promise you're safe.”

 

Daisy knows one thing.

 

Lincoln would never lie to her.

 

As she's falling asleep she remembers that Ward wouldn't either.

 


	2. In the absence of the memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lincoln assumes Grant had to have been taking care of someone before, someone who needed to be helped to get up, walk, get dressed. There's no awkwardness; Grant doesn't make one wrong or awkward movement, and combined with everything Lincoln knows about Ward, it feels strange._
> 
>  
> 
> _The image SHIELD people created in Grant's absence doesn't fit with what Lincoln is witnessing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a chapter about the boys getting through the first days of their unexpected partnership, focused on Lincoln getting better. 
> 
> And yeah, the end is evil, i know. *grins*

The first thing he remembers is how to help.

 

Or, maybe, it's not exactly remembering. It's more like knowing that he has to do it.

 

The man on the ground next to him feels familiar. (Nothing else does. Not even his own hands.) Man's face is pale and his body is wounded ( _he's bleeding internally_ ). He looks at the man, barely conscious as he puts his hand on the man's chest. Wrong, he thinks. He has to touch the face. So he does.

 

( _Lincoln._ )

 

He isn't sure _how_ it works or how it helps, but he feels himself and the man connecting, and he keeps the connection alive until he's found the damage and spent all of his strength on fixing all of it.

 

It feels odd and... right.

 

He falls unconscious, completely spent.

 

*

 

Then just before he wakes up -

 

 _Grant_ , he thinks. _My name is Grant._

 

*

 

When he wakes, its cold.

 

The ground they're lying on is covered with grass and dirt and fallen leaves. He pushes his body up, looks around. There's a house not too far from him (them) that he seems to recognize. It's familiar in a way of seeing it before, of walking around and knowing how the stairs would feel under his feet. He has no idea how he got here and what he's doing here. On a slightly more disturbing thought, he isn't sure who he is either.

 

The man next to him is breathing, slow and a bit shallow, but he's alive. ( _He's doing better_.)

 

Lincoln, Grant thinks again. That's his name. He has no idea how he knows Lincoln, but he is strikingly familiar. Grant knows him, somehow, in the same way one knows the smell of coffee.

 

Lincoln won't be awake soon. He won't be healed soon either. Grant just knows. It's strange because... it doesn't feel like his knowledge. He knows it, though, and as he looks towards the house, he realizes there's nobody else here. Like .. as if _nobody else_ is there, but Lincoln and him.

 

So he has to _protect_ Lincoln. He _needs_ to. ( _Needs_.)

 

Protecting.

 

That... _that's_ what he wants to do.

 

 

*

 

He doesn't count the days. Or hours. He doesn't know how much time they spend like this – Lincoln fighting a fever, and Grant dampening his face with a washcloth, trying to get him to eat, talking him through the semiconscious state and feverish nightmares.

 

They sound familiar too.

 

He _connects_ with Lincoln five more times. It helps reducing the fever and it helps his body to fight back. Every time Grant does it, he is assaulted with images, faces of people that look vaguely familiar and for some reason, frighten Grant. So he carefully avoids it, bound himself in a limbo of memories that seem to seek their way back to him.

 

A boy. A dog. A man with a paper bag (food?) and a cruel smile.

 

A girl with shiny, long hair.

 

 _Skye_ , he thinks.

 

Her name was Skye.

 

*

 

*

 

*

 

 

This time it definitely feels like he's waking up.

 

Lincoln tries to move, shift in the place and raise one arm, then another – and he manages just a little bit. He is warm and there's a pillow under his head and he can feel a somewhat rough blanket made of thick material covering him.

 

So, he's in a bed.

 

He opens his eyes and finds just enough light to see what's around him. There's a bed, a nightstand (and there's a book on it, but the cover is turned other way around so he can't see which book it is – and he can see a bookmark too. So, someone was spending time here, with him?) - there's a chair, a table, a bookshelf against the back wall. A window with simple curtains.

 

For some reason he has a feeling he's inside of a cabin. The place is clean and neat... and Lincoln has no idea how he's still alive.

 

His answer walks into the room a moment later.

 

Or maybe not an answer.

 

He panics instantly. One thing he did not want – the very point of wanting to die – was to take that thing away with him, and here he is, still alive in that same body, and -

 

“Calm down. I'm not... Hive,” the other man says when he undoubtedly sees fear.

 

“Yeah, I... I _believe_ you,” Lincoln replies, forcing his body to move. He has to get up. He has to go and warn Daisy and -

 

Oh my God, he thinks. _Daisy_.

 

“Stay put,” the man reaches the bed, before Lincoln can even sit up, and gently lowers him back on the mattress. Lincoln grabs his hand and discharges as much electricity as he can – which admittedly isn't much. The man pulls his hand away.

 

“Ugh! Why did you do that?” he asks, without malice in his voice or face. Getting burned like that usually pisses people off and this guy... it seems like he _doesn't mind_ getting hurt.

 

“I'm not letting you... get into my head and _sway_ me,” Lincoln says. The other man rubs his wrist and sighs.

 

“Wouldn't I do that already if I wanted it?” he asks, sounding mildly annoyed.

 

Well, he does have a point. Kinda – sorta.

 

“Maybe you waited until you could watch me fight back?”

 

The man rolls his eyes.

 

(For some absurd reason it reminds him of Daisy.)

 

“That would be very dramatic, I am sure,” the man says. “I didn't sway you. I can't do it,” he says. “I don't need it,” he adds in a thoughtful, tired manner.

 

“You don't need it?” Lincoln repeats. “You don't want to order me around like a puppet? Like you did to Daisy?” he feels anger rise in his chest until he is met with other man's gaze. He looks at Lincoln for a short while and then closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“I wish I didn't remember that,” he says. “Hive is gone. I'm Grant,” he says.

 

“That's... much better,” Lincoln sighs.

 

“Well, you can always electrocute _me_ ,” Grant says dryly, and Lincoln would even laugh if he wasn't so damn confused. They were trapped in a space ship that was about to explode.

 

In space.

 

“Okay, let's say you're Grant and not Hive and you don't want to do any harm,” Lincoln says. He doesn't want to think about everything he heard about Grant. He needs to asses in how much danger he's in, and how to get out. “How did we get here?”

 

“I don't know,” Grant says. He brings the chair closer. “I'm gonna pull you up,” he says, and he does, carefully, after which he arranges pillow behind Lincoln so he can be semi seated. Only then Lincoln realizes he must have spent a lot of time in bed. “I woke up on the ground and you were next to me.”

 

Lincoln just stares at him.

 

“And?”

 

“You were injured,” Grant (if it really is Grant) says.

 

That's true.

 

“Are you going to tell me you somehow treated internal injuries?” Lincoln asks. Grant gets up and walks to the table, picking up a bowl. Only then Lincoln realizes Grant has brought food.

 

“Yes,” Is all Grant says. He brings a tray and on it a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. He sets everything on Lincoln's lap and settles in the chair.

 

Lincoln stares at Grant. To say he's feeling disbelief would be an understatement.

 

“Simmons couldn't treat my injuries,” Lincoln says.

 

Grant nods. Something about the way he does it makes Lincoln think he doesn't like Simmons much.

 

“I didn't heal you like Simmons would.”

 

“ _Heal_ me?”

 

Grant shrugs. “Look, I woke up and you were there, and you were... the only thing that felt familiar. And I just... I did what I felt I had to do,” Grant says, a bit defensively, looking away. He reminds Lincoln of Daisy yet again, and while he stares at Grant, trying to somehow make sense of what Grant is saying – and also, things he is possibly omitting – his stomach growls rather loudly.

 

“You should eat,” Grant says carefully, gets up and leaves Lincoln to his meal.

 

*

 

Two things are a fact.

 

This actually is a cabin – in what seems a sparsely populated area. Also, it's surrounded with trees and grass and, by the looks of it, untouched nature. That's the first fact.

 

Grant Ward is a good cook. That's the second fact of the day.

 

Lincoln manages to get up and cross the distance from his bed to bathroom door.

 

Using the bathroom exhausts almost all of his energy, but washing his hands and face after feels amazing, even though he is very obviously clean. (Which only means one thing. Ward was taking care of him. _Actual care_. Lincoln isn't sure what to make of that.)

 

He stands in front of the mirror then and gingerly lifts his shirt. (It's not his shirt. It feels too big. Not that he isn't used to too-big, ill fitting clothes.)

 

He looks somewhat thinner, but overall healthy. He prods and pokes his own abdomen and finds that nothing hurts. He can't say how much time has passed, but he suspects his healing is not done yet, even though he feels mostly healthy.

 

He really has to know what exactly Ward did. Except, he can't find Ward as he walks around other rooms in the house – a kitchen with adjoined dining area, two more bedrooms and a storage room with... all kinds of things inside. Tools, fishing supplies, an ax and chopped wood, old and abandoned things possibly nobody wanted. It's not exactly a vacation house in Lincoln's opinion and it doesn't feel like a place where someone lives. A safe house maybe? It feels too nice for that, though.

 

His little investigation exhausts him to the point of physically needing the bed. Whatever Grant did with him didn't magically fix everything. He still needs to heal.

 

So he goes back to bed, intent on regaining his strength – only after he's done that, he can go about other things that are on his mind.

 

 

*

 

“How did you do it?”

 

There's urgency in Lincoln's voice. Grant studies him, and for some inexplicable reason he likes the man. He's all light colors and tense energy that seems to bounce off around him. Grant can understand why he's nervous – he still has a vague idea about himself; _knows_ that he used to be someone who brought lot of trouble to many people. He's not sure if he ever directly hurt Lincoln – he just knows he doesn't want to do anything alike again.

 

“How did I do what?” Grant asks even though he has an idea what this is about. But he wants to be sure. He's sitting on the ground behind the house – they're on a hilltop and from this spot he can see the valley, the woods, he can see other houses and the road. In the distance he can see the sea. He wonders if this is an island.

 

Lincoln sighs and after a moment he sits down as well.

 

“Look. I had serious internal bleeding.”

 

“I know,” Grant says. Lincoln just looks at him.

 

“How?”

 

Grant realizes he's not being accused of anything. Lincoln simply wants to understand what happened.

 

“I saw you were injured,” Grant says. He tries to remember as best as he can - but it's still hard to find the right words. “You were pale. I … felt I knew you and...,” he looks at Lincoln trying not to feel helpless. “I don't _remember._ It... just felt like that. I had to help you,”

 

The tension loosens somewhat. Grant isn't sure how he can feel it. He just knows he can.

 

“How did you do it?”

 

Grant lifts his hand. He shakes his head, because he honestly doesn't know _how_ he did it. Just that he did it and that he absolutely had to.

 

“I … don't know. It's something.... _he_ could do.”

 

Lincoln is studying him intently. Grant licks his lips and flinches nervously, feeling somehow out of character. He wonders what even is his _character_? He lifts his right hand.

 

“Can I... show you?”

 

He waits until Lincoln nods, then places his palm against the side of Lincoln's face.

 

Nothing happens for a bit and Grant has to close his eyes. After he does that it's easy – he somehow senses there's something wrong with Lincoln's body and focuses on the reality of his not quite healed organism. It comes as simply as breathing. It's never difficult as he does it, only _after_ he's done, because he feels like he spent his own energy to fix whatever is wrong – and he probably did.

 

But it lasts only a moment because Lincoln jerks away.

 

“Did you just - ??” he looks at Grant in fear and then looks down at his abdomen.

 

“You haven't fully recovered yet,” Grant says. “It's... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Or hurt you,” he says.

 

Lincoln still looks frightened but he seems to be considering what Grant just said.

 

“Hive created physiological link to Inhumans he swayed,” Lincoln says. Grant closes his eyes and then looks away. It's not... he doesn't like remembering that. He doesn't remember much, but what he does remember is enough.

 

“I couldn't stop him,” Grant says.

 

“I would... imagine,” Lincoln is still looking at him.

 

“I wish I could,” Grant carefully adds. He's not sure if that's a smart thing to say. Lincoln frowns a little, as if in surprise.

 

“Really?”

 

Grant fixes him with a look. “It wasn't easy... to see anyone's will taken away like that.”

 

Lincoln regards him for a very long moment.

 

“You sound like you're telling the truth,” he says.

 

Grant takes a deep breath. There probably is a good reason to not trust him. “I... think I understand what you mean. But... I don't remember much and... I don't have any reason to lie to you.”

 

 

*

 

Lincoln tries to process what just happened.

 

He can't shake the feeling that this was what Hive did when he... when he swayed people. But obviously he isn't swayed, he is still thinking critically and Ward isn't showing any visible interest to control him.

 

He did control Lincoln's body, for a short while. That's at least what Lincoln believes has happened – he felt tension in his abdomen, something like tingling activity inside himself, like the itch that you get from a wound healing, only more intense.

 

“Okay,” Lincoln says, aware that he can breathe, that he isn't bleeding into his own insides and that he won't fall into septic shock and die.

 

It's because Grant Ward saved his life.

 

“Okay?” Ward asks.

 

“Yes. You saved me. You don't look like someone hellbent on revenge. And I want to know what happened to both of us,” Lincoln says. “Can you accept this?”

 

“Yes,” Grant says tentatively.

 

“I can still electrocute you if you try something funny.”

 

“I have no interest in being electrocuted,” Grant says, realizing this almost sounds like joking.

 

Lincoln keeps studying him. “And you don't remember -?”

 

Grant looks down. “I know I used to... work for SHIELD. I know I turned against them. I'm not sure why. I feel like I didn't want to,” he says and falls quiet for awhile. “I know I hurt a lot of people.”

 

“I'm afraid you did,” Lincoln says. It doesn't sound like judgment. That fact alone feels incredibly good.

 

*

It turns out that Grant is a good nurse.

 

Lincoln wonders at first if Grant remembers Hive's knowledge. If maybe some of his previous hosts was a nurse – however after some time spent in Grant's care, Lincoln somehow feels Grant is carefully avoiding whatever Hive might be left in his head. He cannot fathom how the other man feels but he can make an educated guess. Lacking his own memories, while stolen memories of other people keep assaulting your mind? He'd avoid them too. Heck, he would want to jump out of his skin.

 

So, Lincoln assumes Grant had to have been taking care of someone before, someone who needed to be helped to get up, walk, get dressed. There's no awkwardness; Grant doesn't make one wrong or awkward movement, and combined with everything Lincoln knows about Ward, it feels strange.

 

The image SHIELD people created in Grant's absence doesn't fit with what Lincoln is witnessing.

 

He doesn't understand why exactly Grant is so determined to help him. He feels perpetually exhausted, his body failing to cooperate, and that's why Lincoln doesn't question things much. He can't. But he's safe, he's fed, he's being taken care of. Grant is quiet, pensive, he doesn't intrude. It seems he is hard to read except he isn't.

 

It doesn't take long until Lincoln can tell apart the silences – ones that are calm and focused, like when he's cooking, and ones that are tense and lonely, with nowhere to run to. He thinks he can see harsh shadows and he can see insecurities, and he can see the struggle underneath the surface while the man dutifully goes about the day.

 

It's almost been a week since Lincoln woke up. He knows that recovery would take time, but this feels too slow. He's staring to worry and he's trying not to think about things he can't do for himself here when Grant pulls up a chair and puts a bowl of soup on the nightstand. Lincoln looks at it and sighs. He doesn't actually remember when he ate this well.

 

“You're not getting better,” Grant says.

 

“That's a diagnosis?” Lincoln asks, putting the book he's been reading away. It's strange how many books are here.

 

“I'm not a doctor,” Grant says, “but I do know how bodies work. Had to rely on mine while being shot or injured...”

 

“I get it,” Lincoln says. He has a vague idea what Grant is going to suggest next.

 

“I know you didn't like it...”

 

Lincoln sighs. He's afraid. He doesn't know if he trusts Grant. (Okay – he does. But he's not sure if that's a smart idea at all). But – he's alive and he doesn't see the gain for Grant in taking care of him like this, if he truly has some twisted, backhanded plan.

 

His mind skips to several things Daisy has said, odd comments, things she didn't want to elaborate on while she seemed pensive and raw from hurt. (The same way Grant seems to be feeling).

 

“Okay,” Lincoln says.

 

“You're sure?”

 

Lincoln looks at him and nods.

 

Hive most certainly wouldn't ask for a consent.

 

Lincoln closes his eyes.

 

Grant's hands are warm and feel... nice. For a couple of moments nothing happens and Lincoln looks to find Grant closing his eyes and bowing his head. And then...

 

It feels like heat flooding him. It's a good feeling, nice and warm as it spreads through his body and settles inside of his stomach. It's an inviting sensation, safe and good and it's very hard to... give into it completely. As Lincoln closes and then opens his eyes and sees sweat forming near Grant's hairline he wonders if resisting is a wrong thing to do.

 

This is already happening, Lincoln thinks. So he might just give it a proper try.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

He never expects what happens next.

 


	3. Fractures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye wakes up again, realizing exactly what is wrong with her. At the same time, Lincoln and Grant are doing their best to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we move fast forward in time, back to boys and Skye. You're getting more information about what's wrong with her, about what exactly Lincoln experienced last time when Grant tried to heal him, and a bit more info in general. 
> 
> And since there was a popular demand for one particular thing, you're getting that as well. Mind the rating and pairing additions and feel free to ask questions. Comments are super appreciated, and i DO read them and the make me SO HAPPY, i am just extremely busy and wasn't able to answer to the last chapter's comments - but I will, I promise.

Next time, when she gets up, her legs hold.

 

She finds a bathroom, a hairbrush, a clean towel. This can't be a safehouse, because it feels lived – in, comfortable in a way those places where you stop by to hide are not. Lincoln never had a permanent place to stay while on the run, so it can only be Ward's. She ignores that as she washes her face.

 

Only then she notices how her skin looks like.

 

Familiar bruises and fractures.

 

She remembers, vaguely, a white room at the base. Then she remembers Jemma, she remembers talking to her, but she doesn't want to think about that. She doesn't want the images, the words spoken as her chest fills with disappointment. At the same time it bothers her not being able to remember what was said, because it feels important. Daisy looks at the water flowing into the sink while her mind refuses to cooperate. It's almost like someone... _erased._.. what was important.

 

And then it hits her.

 

She knows what's wrong.

 

 

*

 

It's Lincoln that Grant hears first. It's the way he shouts Grant's name that makes Grant drop the fishing supplies and run inside.

 

He knows what happened as he runs upstairs and nearly trips. There's shouting coming from the bathroom. It's heartbreaking, but he tells himself he can't give in to anything he's feeling right now.

 

Choose not to feel, he thinks, but later he can hear Lincoln saying – no, choose how to act. You feel the way you feel.

 

And how he feels is helpless.

 

It looks about how he imagined it would – Daisy on the floor and Lincoln trying to calm her and hold her. She's trying to kick him away and she's crying, and she's repeating how “they took it away”.

 

Grant kneels next to them when grief takes over anger and Daisy slumps against the bathroom wall. There's a quick glance Grant and Lincoln exchange before she starts to _wail_. It's absolutely, completely soul crushing.

 

Grant glances at Lincoln yet again. He's sitting there, giving her space to cry, and that's what Grant does too. They're there and they are not going to leave and they will let her cry her soul out if she needs to. And she does, she cries, and Grant tries to remember how this felt. How it felt to be robbed off something you treasured so much.

 

She lifts her hands and looks at them. They're shaking so badly, and Grant wants to hold her. He's guessing that's what Lincoln wants as well but neither of them move – if he knows Daisy (if he knows Skye) then she will want space and she won't accept comfort right away. In that regard she is like him, willing to isolate herself and suffer alone, convinced that's what she deserves.

 

Then, when her crying subsides, she speaks.

 

“They did something to me,” she says. And she looks at Grant after that. It's almost as if she's looking for confirmation. “My powers are gone,” she says.

 

“I am sorry,” he answers, feeling as if his heart is _bleeding._

 

She looks at him like she wants to say something – like there's so much to say, but she can't. He thinks he can understand – the way he gave himself over to John, the way he followed the man, was the same way she followed Coulson and SHIELD. Who are now tearing into her. Grant closes his eyes because a significant part of him wants to tear right back into them. That won't help. He looks at Lincoln and reminds himself that hurting someone else doesn't help with your own pain in the end.

 

“It's gone,” she's saying again and again. “It's gone,” she looks at Lincoln, helpless and raw. “I can't feel anything. It's... like the world went mute... I feel like I'm blind.”

 

*

 

All she wants is to be alone.

 

It's funny. She doesn’t have to fight to be alone – the guys seem to retreat and give her space and the world is void of noise anyway. She thinks she can hear the shower running downstairs but she's not sure – before, she would know.

 

Now? She doesn't care. Doesn't _want_ to care. And _they_ allow her not to care.

 

She spent the day in this room. And the next one, and the one after that. Lincoln brought food and then Grant brought food. Then later he brought coffee as well. She wasn't going to drink it but eventually she did. It warmed her up. She forgot how that felt too.

 

She spent a lot of time near the window, looking outside. She feels like there's world out there to be explored, sights to be found, but she doesn't want to do that right now. It's out there. It can wait. She periodically hears the men walking through the house, or talking. She can't make out the words, just two familiar voices. They're there and it feels good to hear them – it feels better than she could ever possibly imagine.

 

On the third day, early in the morning, Grant walks down the road with a duffel bag on his back, and huge fishing boots on his feet. He comes back late in the evening, and it seems he's carrying even more than he carried when he went away.

 

She thinks about going into shower herself, but finally decides against it. She is so tired, so spent and she doesn't want a reminder of her discovery in the bathroom.

 

That her body is numb and her hands useless, and her powers were taken away from her.

 

*

 

Sometimes Lincoln thinks he can sense electric charge bouncing off Grant's skin. He can't – what he can do is recognize his moods. He knows what bowed head and tense back mean. Grant has been carrying that tension since Daisy collapsed in the bathroom, and it seems to be culminating right now.

 

He's tired and it seems the fishing wasn't as successful as Grant and Dave hoped it would be. At this point Lincoln isn't sure what's going to be more frustrating – letting him go tomorrow again or leaving him here. Maybe the prospect of cooking and spending a quiet day – because here it is quiet – will be better than facing another tiring yet unsuccessful trip with Dave's boat.

 

Lincoln brings Daisy's dinner upstairs and finds her asleep. It seems like that's what she does the most. He wonders if they'd allow her to sleep at the base, considering that Simmons' notes about the serum mention sleep deprivation as a factor that “aids the serum work more efficiently”. He suppresses a shudder and looks down at Daisy, at the way she's curled and tightly holding onto her blankets. Giving her time and space, as much as she needs is the best thing they can afford to her right now.

 

But she's not the only one Lincoln should take care of.

 

He can hear Grant moving inside the bathroom. Even the sounds he makes are tense. This is his typical tactic of shutting himself off and licking his wounds in private, and Lincoln would indulge it and give him more space than he already has during last three days if the potential damage wasn't just too big. Grant can't deal with this alone, heck Lincoln knows that he himself can't deal with this alone.

 

There's a possibility that they won't be able to fix what really matters. Lincoln casts another glance at his laptop, at the data Mack provided them with, closes his eyes and rubs them. It's not something Daisy should walk onto, at least not just yet, so he carefully shuts everything down and takes the laptop to his room. He leaves his sweater there too, and makes a short, resolute trip to the bathroom.

 

It's filled with steam, which tells him Grant is probably suffering muscle pain of some sort. Again. And typically he said nothing when he came back home. Lincoln sighs, undresses, all the while observing Grant's back half hidden by the water and semi transparent glass. Grant is pointedly ignoring him, but that doesn't deter Lincoln in the slightest. He steps into the shower and winces because the water is so hot it stings.

 

“And what did I tell you about extreme heat and your cardiovascular system?”

 

Grant snorts, head bowed forward and his hands against tiles. He's letting the water slide down his neck and upper back, and Lincoln can make an educated guess about what's hurting. He places a hand between Grant's shoulder blades and watches how his muscles move when Grant lifts his head.

 

“I wouldn't use your magic touch right now,” Grant says.

 

“I'm not a fan of electrocuting myself either,” Lincoln answers. “I'm not gonna go away and leave you alone.”

 

“Well, you should,” Grant says. He's brooding and he's sad and there's a powerless vibe to him that he always tries to hide.

 

“Grant,” Lincoln says softly. “We... talked about this. Please.”

 

He still doesn't move save for bowing his head again and breathing hard.

 

“I'm not going away,” Lincoln repeats, but this time he means something else. He means, you're not a third wheel. You're needed.

 

“She hates me,” Grant's voice is weaker now, close to shaking. Lincoln steps closer, both hands on Grant's back now.

 

“She doesn't. She hates herself,” Lincoln says. Grant snotrts again. He leans his head against the tiles, looks as if he's trying to hide. It's a pointless move, considering they're inside a small shower stall and they're both naked.

 

“You know that for a fact?”

 

“Yes,” Lincoln says. “Because she is doing the same thing as you.”

 

That makes him look up and over his shoulder at Lincoln, who chooses his next words carefully. “You're not useless.”

 

Grant looks back at the tiled wall, the tension in him reaching its peak. Then he turns around, looking dejected and beaten. He resists for one moment longer before he leans heavily against Lincoln.

 

And Lincoln sighs as he hugs Grant relieved that someone accepts to be comforted.

 

“You're not a consolation prize,” he tells Grant who is now starting to shake. For all the pain he endured, all the traumas Lincoln has seen through the healing connection, Grant cries without making a sound. Maybe it's because being openly vulnerable could have cost him life. _Did_ cost him life.

 

“But you still love her,” Grant says. Before, it would take ages to get something like this out of him. They'd connect, while Grant was working on healing him, and Lincoln would see and feel and get the idea what was going on in Grant's head. He had seen Grant's childhood, has seen the years of living in the woods, being in SHIELD and losing the team. And the barriers disappeared over this year they've spent together.

 

“And you love her too,” Lincoln states calmly. It's nothing new. They both know that since early on. It's one of the things that connects them so strongly too. “Look at me, Grant.”

 

He does. Lifts his head and meets Lincoln's eyes.

 

“Remember what I told you a week ago?”

 

There were lot of things said, but what Lincoln means is one certain, very particular admission. And Grant too knows which one.

 

“Yes,” Grant answers. The tension is leaving him now, and that's when Lincoln knows it's okay to pull him close for a kiss. It's long and melancholic and sweet, and when it comes to a natural end they remain close, foreheads touching.

 

“Well, I mean it,” Lincoln says. “And I need you. She needs you. None of us can do this alone.”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Misericordia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The recovery begins, on all sides.

*

Lincoln steps out to the porch and waits a beat. It's a nice day – there's plenty of sunshine and the air is fresh, but there's still lingering chill that never seems to go away. He is grateful for the sweater Grant left in his room. It's pretty thick and it scratches and Lincoln likes the feeling. (He's not entirely sure about the reindeer motif but even that's better than being cold.)

Lincoln has questions, has _tons_ of questions about where they are, where does the food come from, how come this house – in a seemingly lonely location – has such good plumbing and heating and well, everything – but mostly, Lincoln is concerned.

He waits on the porch for Grant to react. He doesn't. Lincoln takes that as a sign that he's not unwelcome. (It's not like Grant ever treated him as someone who isn't welcome).

He comes to sit next to Grant and struggles for awhile to find a way to begin this conversation. Grant looks both numb and tense at the same time. Lincoln tries to put his thoughts in order, but his head is full of images, feelings, words and shouts. It's mostly pain, pain and loneliness and shame. He has heard plenty about Grant, he has seen his kill list, he has listened to SHIELD agents recounting stories about a man – monster.

(And he has seen Daisy's sadness. When she thought nobody was looking.)

And now he has _seen_ Grant.

He closes his eyes for a moment and that proves to be the wrong decision, because once he does the images are back – woods, the rain falling, some kind of cold prison with bars, a cot and an impenetrable wall made of energetic fiend. Pain in his side and collapsing to the floor after the sound of gunshots. Skye's face, framed with pain. A woman with dark hair dying on the floor.

The well. A small boy trying not to drown. Fear. Guilt, shame, anger, helplessness.

More fear.

“Was that you?” Lincoln asks, unable to stop himself.

Grant looks up from his folded hands.

“Depends which one you mean,” he says slowly, as if he knows what Lincoln is asking. Lincoln takes a breath. He doesn't want to sound curious or judgmental or really anything, he wants to know, and dear God, he wants to _understand_ what exactly happened here, because the picture that's implied is making his skin crawl.

“The boy at the well,” Lincoln says.

Grant looks down at his hands. He shakes his head slowly.

“That was my younger brother. I was... up there.”

Lincoln lets this settle. He's watching Grant, while he – probably – is trying to sort out these memories himself.

“You pulled him up,” Lincoln says.

“I also pushed him inside,” Grant says after a moment of silence. His voice sounds so tense, like it might just break and disappear.

Lincoln faintly remembers not being able to speak and his – Grant's – entire throat burning with pain.

“Why?” he asks. Without judgment, he hopes.

“Because Christian made me,” Grant says, squeezing his fingers together. It looks like a nervous gesture a child would do.

“Who is Christian?”

“My brother. Other brother. Older... brother,” he says, and it looks like he's struggling to remember, or maybe to put it into words. Lincoln doesn't intend asking how he made Grant do this, he doesn't think he should; poking a wound just to see if it hurts is something he's _not_ going to do. But Grant seems lost in his thoughts when he continues. “I was … afraid of him. I wanted to protect Tom. But... I couldn't and.... he made me and then.... everyone thought it was my fault. Thomas... our parents...”

“Nobody believed you,” Lincoln says as a feeling of being there, living through that rises within him as a wave and almost makes him shake. He's supposed to see Hydra's trained killer, the man who is supposed to be an enemy, but all Lincoln manages to see is someone scared and lost. Grant shakes his head. “How old were you?”

“Ten,” Grant says. “I think. My memory is still...,” he closes his eyes in resignation and shakes his head. “It's slowly getting better. It's just. I'm not sure that's a good thing.”

Lincoln keeps watching him. He's looking for some sign of deception, hearing everything he was told about Grant – liar, manipulator, cruel, disgusting, a murderer. He sees none of that right now and doesn't think the flashbacks he saw were in any way possible to pretend.

“I'm not sure I want to remember,” Grant says then. “I'm sorry all of these have popped up while -” he lifts his hand weakly and an image flashes across Lincoln's mind – another one he was probably unable to register while they were connected. Daisy, but with long hair, looking younger and softer (softer than he _ever_ saw her), sitting next to Grant and taking his hand. Grant feeling heavy, like thousand years old; raw and frightened in a strange way.

Lincoln wants to reach out. He wants it _badly_. He was never the one to stand and watch anyone suffer.

“I'm sorry that you're going through it because you're trying to help me,” Lincoln says.

That's the first time when Grant turns to face him.

“It's.... I just -” he looks like he's trying to explain this, both to himself and to Lincoln.

“You don't have to,” Lincoln says empathically, because he doesn't want this man to feel even worse. But he stubbornly shakes his head.

“I want to. You need help, and I … _can_ help you.”

It's _how_ he says it. And how he looks as he says it. Lincoln suddenly understands – thinks he understands – that all Grant ever wanted to do wasn't what he ended up doing. Nobody believed me echoes in Lincoln's mind.

“Okay,” Lincoln says. “But then, let me at least try to help you?”

 

*

 

Daisy stares. Lincoln's fingers don't look the same any more. _He_ doesn't look the same, he looks like some kind of a bearded mountain man. His hands are not the elegant doctor – fingers she was used to, but he still manages to be gentle and not aggravate any of her bruises under the gauze.

Her arm is still black and blue and her skin resembles a broken statue.

“That's better,” Lincoln decides as he unwraps her forearm all the way. “Gotta give it room to breathe.”

She just nods. Her mind is rebelling. Against what, she isn't exactly sure. But this isn't supposed to be Lincoln, doing all this hard work. His hands are supposed to be elegant.

His hands aren’t' supposed to _be_. He isn't supposed to exist at all. 

“How did you survive?” she asks. She can't stand it any more – she feels trapped and angry, feels betrayed in a way because she spent a year on the run, in a constant fight or flight mode trying to mourn him, trying to let him go... and he was alive all that time. Alive and with Ward. Living... this fisherman – lumberjack life in the middle of nowhere. In Canada. She at least thinks this is Canada.

“There was someone on the ship. I passed out. Grant was awake. The man appeared and the next thing, we were here.”

“Where is “here”?” she asks as he works on her other arm – unwraps it, inspects the damage done to her body. Her mind revolts as she remembers Jemma with that syringe.

“Alaska,” Lincoln says casually. “Not too far from Pelican, actually.”

Pelican, Alaska. That makes... zero sense.

“Who was that man?” she asks.

“We don't know. He might have been an Inhuman,” Lincoln says.

Daisy looks up and into his eyes. It's almost too much for her right now.

“Gordon could transport people,” Lincoln says. “That's, honestly, the only explanation I can come up with.”

Daisy nods absently. That, or all three of them are dead and stuck in some kind of purgatory, because this? Sure as heck isn't heaven.

“Yeah,” she says.

He is putting away the used bandages and packing up the med kit in that methodical way she remembers so painfully clearly. It's surreal. There's a part of her heart that wants to leap off the floor where she's keeping it, but Daisy doesn't let it happen. This... this is just not right. There has to be a catch. There has to be something, because things never went well whenever she felt happy. Anything even close to being happy.

“You should go out,” Lincoln says.

“What?”

“Out,” he repeats. “Out of the room. Sunshine and fresh air will do you good.”

“I -” she starts and falters. She doesn't want to tell him what exactly she's avoiding.

“He won't bother you,” Lincoln says almost as if he could read her mind.

“I'm not scared of Ward,” she says, her tone betraying more than she would like to let on.

“I know,” Lincoln sounds soft and patient and smiles just like he did when she first saw him. He packs up and she knows he won't be trying to talk her into going out any more, and that almost makes her sad.

He's at her door when he turns around. “Tell you what. Come down and I'll make us coffee.”

 

*

It's _too_ tempting. No matter how much she wanted to be left alone, she's starved for human contact. Ten minutes later she's siting on the porch with a cup of coffee, trying to get used to the way the world around her feels. Just sights and sounds, and no vibrations.

Lincoln tells her general things about the place, the people who live near, Dave and his son (whom Ward saved once from a bear). She's eyeing the fishing boots curiously.

“We have to pay for the living somehow,” he says.

“You _fish_?” she asks, and the surprise she feels over it suddenly reminds her what it's like to be alive.

“Among other things,” Lincoln says. “We usually go out with Dave.”

“Is that where Ward is now?”

Lincoln shakes his head. It's strange to watch him move, hear him speak. Daisy is soaking up the sight of him just like her body is soaking up the sunshine.

“Mrs. Danvers down the road has a broken leg. Someone needs to chop her wood.”

“Ward chops wood for a little old lady?”

“Not little and not very old,” Lincoln says. “She makes best pies.”

She's staring at him over the rim of her cup. “I can't believe this. This is just....surreal.”

Lincoln smiles, melancholy in his features. “I know.”

That's when they hear the sound of an engine and sure enough, it's Grant.

She wants to bolt but she makes herself stay.

He's driving a sturdy looking pickup truck. He parks it neatly between two trees, shuts down the engine and steps out. For a moment he's staring, emotions passing over his face, and she remembers just how expressive he can be. How easy to read and at the same time how confusing. It's like she doesn't know what the smile and the anxious look in his eyes mean. He only relaxes when Lincoln nods.

That she cannot read.

“Skye,” he says. He sounds a little out of breath.

“It's Daisy,” her words are mostly a reflex. She is too spent to truly mind.

“Right. I'm sorry. It's going to take time to get used to, uh -”

He trails off and looks at her as if he expects her to tell him to go, and the thing is, _she doesn't want to_. The sight of him brings back all the old questions. The hours she spent broken over his betrayal come back full force, and this time she doesn't have the strength to pull up another wall or run away.

But then he looks at her, seeking something on her face and when he seemingly finds it he looks.... pleased. Calmer.

“Okay, I'll just -”

He's about to go when Lincoln speaks up.

“Want some coffee?”

Grant hesitates a heartbeat or two. He looks at her waiting for her to shut him off – she knows. She _knows._

And the thing is, she can't. There is no strength left in her, but more importantly she realizes that she doesn't want to. She tired that, didn't she? And look where that got her – where it got all of them.

So she just takes another sip of her coffee, closes her eyes and leans her head back. Accepts this. Sunshine and quiet.

“Yeah, sure,” she hears Grant say. “Coffee sounds great.”


	5. Mowing towards, moving away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We keep skipping between the present and the past.

 

*

 

She looks at herself in the mirror and she realizes she's expecting much much worse than the reflection she actually sees. Sure, her hair needs washing and she could use nicer clothes, but the bag that Lincoln and Grant grabbed from that room still remains mostly untouched, gathering dust next to Skye's bed. (It's her stuff, almost everything she has left behind at SHIELD – and she had left nearly all she had, which someone has neatly packed. She suspects Mack and Jemma, only she can't think about Jemma. So she doesn't look at the bag more than strictly necessary, which means finding new underwear.

 

She can't stand the jogger pants and the hoodie she's been hiding in ever since she woke up. She finds her favorite pair of jeans and almost cries. She keeps searching for that big, oversized sweater that used to keep her warm around the base, but it's not there.

 

She reconciles with another loss.

 

The bathroom is the only room in the house that's completely warm. There is a key and she locks the door, not so much because of the men, but because she needs that feeling of shutting herself away. It probably isn't good or healthy.

 

She doesn't give a damn about it, though – and nobody is making her to.

 

She stares at herself in the mirror and finds that her bones aren't sticking out as much as they did the day after she woke up. The paleness is gone from her face and her body looks fuller – no wonder, because all she has been doing for three weeks straight was eating and sleeping. (She _still_ feels tired). After she's done washing and drying her hair she finds there's a shine to it that she has forgotten.

 

(Her search in the bathroom reveals that one of the cupboards in there is probably meant for her. The towels inside are distinctly nicer, there is a hairbrush that's a bit better than the one she had packed in the bag, and there are distinct female hygiene products inside that make her pause – the brands that she used at the base – Lincoln's doing, probably – in amounts that suffice for several months – which is most likely Grant's idea. She looks at it for several minutes, considering all the implications of her find. It has been a long time since she felt her hair fill with warmth as it does now.

 

Someone cares. Cares enough to get her five boxes of tampons. It's ridiculous, but it's wonderful.)

 

She is getting dressed and she hears Lincoln and Grant below her feet, in the kitchen. They're talking and setting the table and that's when her stomach chooses to growl.

 

Before she leaves the warmth of the bathroom she grabs a grey sweater from the counter – it's big and soft and warm; and she saw Lincoln wear it.

 

It smells like him too. That scent that was lost from her memory. She revels in it.

 

Her steps falter a little when she actually comes all the way down the stairs that lead directly into dining area and adjoining kitchen. They're both staring at her with expressions of mixed curiosity and relief. Skye looks at Lincoln first and then at Grant. There are _so many_ things she would like to look for on each of their faces, but she doesn't dare. She looks at her hands and remembers she didn't ask for a permission to borrow the sweater.

 

Pulling the sleeves over her alms feels oddly comforting.

 

“Hand me another plate,” Grant says casually. She looks up to Lincoln who does as he was asked. Grant sets her plate across his own seat, so that Lincoln is sitting between two of them. She sits down and watches them from safety of her far away spot – observes how Lincoln cuts the bread and sets it on the table, watches as Grant places other dishes near her. (She has no idea what the chicken dish is called, but there's salad and there's mashed potatoes and a part of her that was never truly fed – not in orphanage and not in her living on the move years, not even during her time with SHIELD – that part of her is cheering so hard, she cannot possibly stop it.)

 

“Help yourself,” Lincoln says, and even passes her the bowl with chicken.

 

And she does.

 

The meal is mostly quiet, but the awkwardness seems to be gone. She's observing the men now, their comfortable clothes, the way Grant's hair is tidy and his cheeks clean shaven, and the strange, uncharacteristic beard that's covering Lincoln's face.

 

(She might want to touch both. And she refuses to think about that.)

 

“I didn't know you were such a good cook,” she tells Grant. He looks up from his meal, as if he's surprised.

 

“Thank you,” he says.

 

 

*

 

It's Sunday afternoon and Daisy watches Lincoln and Grant hauling an armchair from the living room out onto the porch. She's safely hidden behind window curtains, which look like they might have belonged to someone's grandmother – they're made out of fine, crispy white material that's kept in perfect, snow white shape.

 

She spies on them from top of the stairs, listening to their mission plan ( _no – hold it there – now help me turn it sideways – yes, good, perfect_ ) and after, watching them settling it onto the spot that catches the most sunshine and covering it with blankets and pillows.

 

She knows exactly what they're doing.

 

She is also super tempted to just run out and claim the spot that's obviously meant for her.

 

*

 

_(a year and a half ago)_

 

 

It's knocking that wakes him. Lincoln opens his eyes, realizing that at some point he has started sleeping deeper. He never was a particularly heavy sleeper, and during his time with SHIELD his sleep had definitely thinned with the need to react quickly. _Ward used to drag me out of bed to train_ , Daisy said once, proud that she was alert and awake before five am. Lincoln remembers himself yawning.

 

He stretches and rubs his eyes as knocking repeats. “Lincoln?” It's Grant, standing by the half open door to Lincoln's room. He sounds unsure, in a way that makes Lincoln sit up.

 

“I'm awake... what's going on?”

 

 

 

He flips on the light and sees Grant, hesitating by the door. His expression is tense and uncomfortable. “Grant?”

 

“You said you'd help me,” he answers and it takes a moment for Lincoln's mind to clear. Then he remembers himself saying it, and more importantly, he remembers the situation.

 

“Of course,” Lincoln swings his feet to the floor and gets up. He has a feeling that he needs to approach _this_ , and Grant, carefully. “What happened, Grant?”

 

The conflicted expression on his face deepens. He is still hesitating by the door, his attention turned inward, to his inner landscape. It looks like he's struggling and Lincoln tells himself not to reach out too fast.

 

Finally, Grant looks up. “I... I'm not sure if I remembered something that was me or...”

 

He trails off and looks down and in that moment he looks utterly powerless. “Or Hive,” Lincoln says. He says it calmly and without fear, without disgust or judgment and that allows Grant to look up.

 

“Yeah,” Grant answers.

 

“What did you remember?” Lincoln asks.

 

Grant shakes his head. “It's.... lot of people and confusion and...,” he looks at Lincoln, silently asking for help.

 

“Come on in,” Lincoln says, gesturing towards that same small table where he saw a book when he first woke up here. As Grant does, Lincoln ventures to the hallway to turn up the heating. He returns to find Grant slumping forward, looking vulnerable and small. He's sometimes confused with the perpetual change going on in front of his eyes – the man who helps him, cooks, goes out before break of the day to meet one of the fishermen he met here five years ago (it seems like this isn't the first time Grant found himself stranded here). He comes back after dark, bringing food and hauling heavy fishing equipment. The man that seems to want to look as small as possible is the same man who insists Lincoln needs to know how to use a shotgun. The area is filled with bears.

 

 _I have electricity_ , Lincoln reminds.

 

 _I also want you to have options, especially if other people are around_ , Grant calmly reasons. And thus Lincoln practices shooting.

 

Lincoln sits across from Grant, puts his hands on the table with his palms down.

 

“I can't describe what's going on,” Grant says, frowning.

 

“Okay. Let's take it step by step. Can you...-” Lincoln pauses and thinks back to long time ago psychiatry classes that were never his favorite. They did teach him something called visualization techniques there. “Can you close your eyes and pretend it's a movie. Like and image on the screen?”

 

Grant slowly nods and then does as told. As he closes his eyes his frown deepens, slowly morphing into a painful expression.

 

“Can you see what's around you?” Lincoln asks. Grant nods rather quickly. “Can you tell me what you see?”

 

“It's... a grey space. I see shadows. No. People. People around me.”

 

“Okay, people. What are they doing?”

 

“They're.... standing there. And.... moving away.”

 

“They're moving away?”

 

“Yes. From.... moving away from me.”

 

Oh.

 

“What else, Grant? Does anything else happen?”

 

“They were talking. In hushed voices. And when I come close they stop,” he says and opens his eyes. “They're afraid. Of me.”

 

Lincoln lets out a small breath, feeling frustrated and wondering if Grant would have any good memories to remember.

 

“You? Is this memory yours?”

 

Grant shakes his head. “I don't know. I can't recognize anything,” he says, looking uncomfortable.

 

How unfair it is to be burdened with another lifetime of awful memories? And not being able to tell if they're yours or not?

 

“Grant... that time you remembered your brothers,” Lincoln starts slowly. “Were you aware that memory was yours?”

 

Grant pauses to think. God, if only that memory was a nice one. “Not at first,” he says. “But then I somehow... knew.”

 

“And now?”

 

Lincoln watches as Grant looks down at his hands. The thing about being here for nearly two months now is that Grant doesn't have to be anything that he used to be, or that's at least what Lincoln thinks. They have settled into a routine where Lincoln has picked up tasks that don't aggravate his still healing body. Grant is the one who goes out and _works_ , helps Dave, or anyone else in the small town on the island - but he is also the person everyone here seems to know – and it seems people know him by things that are good. A week ago Dave's son Max came with couple of old photographs. Lincoln recognizes Grant (and Max, who was about five years old, and a spaniel puppy that's a grown dog now).

 

“I saw him kill a bear,” Max tells Lincoln. “Like Captain America or somethin'.” At that Grant grinned and waved his hand, like it wasn't a big deal at all.

 

Slowly, Grant is facing his past self. Only, without a way to know for certain if it was him or not.

 

“Can you.... show me?” Lincoln asks. Grant gives him a confused look. “Maybe the memories which are and aren't yours are somehow different. Maybe they're different in quality or intensity, or something else. I was able to feel what you felt when I saw the thing with your brothers,” Lincoln says. “Maybe, if you show me both, I could tell the difference?”

 

Lincoln almost expects him to say no. He is deeply uncomfortable about appearing weak, and half of the time he is like a raw wound that keeps reopening. Thus, the answer surprises him.

 

“You think that's possible?”

 

“Anything is possible. We can't know if we don't try,” Lincoln says. “Look... I know you were taught to do everything on your own. But this is really hard. It's really hard to deal with something like this without having anyone to rely on.”

 

Grant looks away for a moment, conflicted and then looks back at Lincoln. Lincoln thinks about what he's offering and decides that he has no doubts.

 

“I'm not – You're not going to find a good person in there,” Grant says. It's a variation of something Lincoln heard him say in a memory to someone else. _I am not a good man, Skye_.

 

“Grant,” Lincoln says slowly. “We can't change the things you've done. But your past is _not_ your present.”

 

Grant shakes his head. “So idealistic.”

 

Lincoln sighs, feeling an opening and the tension dissipating as Grant pulls a chair closer. Relief is obvious on his face as he accepts help. And that's good. That makes Lincoln feel hopeful.

 

“Such a pain in the ass,” Lincoln says, allowing Grant to place his palm to the side of Lincoln's face.

 

 

*

 

Daisy refuses to leave the chair until it becomes absolutely too cold to sit outside. By that time the skyline is starting to darken, and the moment she enters the house – which is nicely warm by now – Grant is alone in the kitchen, making coffee.

 

“Would you like some?” he offers.

 

Part of her wants to bolt, run away from his presence and hide. That is because the other part of her is hopelessly gravitating towards him.

 

He looks like her SO. He looks _exactly_ like he did back when she met him, except his entire frame is somewhat bigger. Hard work and everything he has been through in past years – _years_ – has defined him. But other than that his eyes remind her of a guy who promised he would never turn her back on her, the one who took time to properly teach her self defense, to build the foundation of everything she has learned later. She lets herself realize that he could have easily sabotaged her then, make her vulnerable, teach her to be blindsided. But he didn't. He taught her to be the best she could be, and he was proud when she became just that, regardless of everything else. Even those four shots.

 

She is who she is because of him.

 

“Yes,” she says. “I would.”

 

And she sits at her spot at the table and watches him work.

 

 

*

*

*

 

 

 

Lincoln finds Grant in bed already when he enters their bedroom that evening.

 

He's not reading and he's not looking at maps. He's staring at the ceiling with this unusual expression on his face. (Well, unusual for _Grant_.)

 

Lincoln studies him as he changes his clothes, the way he looks relaxed, one arm underneath his head, the other resting on his stomach. His breathing is slow and his eyes look _content_.

 

“You seem happy,” Lincoln says as he pulls on a shirt he sleeps in and sits on the edge of the bed.

 

It takes a moment until Grant comes out of his daze.

 

“She went out again,” Grant says and smiles a little.

 

Lincoln smiles back. He is _so happy_ because it worked – because Daisy spent nearly two hours outside, breathing in the fresh air and relaxing – and he is so much happier because Grant is happy. His care for both of them is somehow combined and Lincoln finds he cannot separate one sentiment from the other.

 

Grant shifts to the side, looking as if he suddenly realized something. His expression turns soft, vulnerable; but in a good way.

 

“What?” Lincoln asks, and he is already moving across the bed and over Grant who lays back and smiles up at Lincoln.

 

“Good memories,” Grant says. When Lincoln frowns, Grant smiles, taking Lincoln's face in both of his hands. “This.... it's going to be a good memory to remember,” he says and then Lincoln _remembers_. His breath catches when he realizes what Grant wants to say, and he feels both happy and sad, bittersweet.

 

“You're right,” Lincoln says as they shift so that they're comfortable, side to side and close to each other. “You deserve them.”

 

Grant closes his eyes and kisses him, long and soft and aching, and Lincoln gives himself over and into the kiss.

 

 


	6. Pour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, after four months of healing and getting to know each other something unexpected happens to Lincoln. And that's when he sees Grant's first happy memory.

Something about the way Lincoln keeps coughing doesn't seem right, but he's not complaining and he keeps working through the day. They're out with Dave and the wind is whipping the boat and the weather is making fishing almost impossible. Grant never complains but when Dave decides to go back, few hours before they usually do, Grant sighs. Lincoln looks exhausted, braced against the railing. There's a pull inside Grant's chest but he resists it. If Lincoln needs anything, he will say it.

 

Grant still keeps glancing at him.

 

The ride home is uncharacteristically quiet. Lincoln sinks low in his seat. Which ougt to be hard because he is tall, taller than Grant and the pickup truck wasn't made with very tall passengers in mind.

 

“Lincoln?” Grant asks.

 

“I'm... Just really tired,” he answers and shrugs. It calms Grant, or rather it should calm him and he keeps telling himself that; but he keeps an eye on Lincoln as they unload the fishing equipment, and while they're heating up their dinner. He eats, and he eats well, but it seems a bit like he's forcing himself to. He tells Grant not to worry, that he's simply tired and that's all, and goes to sleep a bit earlier than usual.

 

Grant tries to read, opens the laptop and checks the feeds on old, but still running hydra channels. The feed rolls down the screen but his mind fails to follow. He is battling the worry instead, appealing to his rationality to let this nagging feeling go. He skims the news for anything suspicious, anything that might sound alarming. The old habits die slowly, he thinks, or don't die at all. Or, they survive your own death. Which is terribly ironic.

 

He remembers himself better which is both good and not, because he doesn't like what he remembers. Lincoln keeps reminding him that he has a choice, that everything is a choice, that past is in the past. He sounds like a broken record, but what used to annoy Grant as idealistic chatter became something that now makes him feel relieved. He remembers something disturbing, something that makes him look long and hard in the mirror, and Lincoln reminds him _you choose who you'll be_.

The clock tells Grant it's almost eleven pm. He goes to the bathroom, has a quick shower and goes to bed. He can't sleep, though. He's tired but his mind is wide awake even when he leaves the living room and closes the door to his own room – all he does is listen to the sounds around him. It's strange, because this used to be his rational mind's doing – keeping his surroundings in check and not allowing his tired body to take over. Right now his mind is trying to convince his body it's time to rest, but his senses are refusing it.

 

Ultimately he forces himself to fall asleep. He can actually do that. It seems that training survives death as well. The old skills are enough to help him settle into disciplined functioning of before. It works well here, because discipline is something that's necessary in these conditions. However he wakes sooner than necessary and for a moment he's still under the covers, staring into thick darkness and listening.

 

And then, there it is, the sound that woke him. The coughing.

 

As his chest tightens with worry, he focuses on the sensation. He observes as it comes alive inside of him and this time Grant lets is seize him. It's the emotion that's been keeping him awake – the worry and anxiety and when he hears Lincoln coughing from the other side of the wall, he makes himself give up.

 

His body might have died but the voices telling him not to give in to emotions did _not._

 

But, it's Lincoln who keeps telling him that not listening to yourself, _any_ part of yourself is not a good thing. So he consciously overrides his old code, swings his feet to the floor and ignores the cold as he walks to Lincoln's door. He knocks and waits, but there's no answer – just a faint cough and stirring.

 

“Lincoln?”

 

Grant knows him well enough by now. Lincoln isn't a heavy sleeper even when he's tired. Normally, he would have reacted at the knock. In past four months they've been though enough together, which is why Grant doesn't think any more about opening the door and coming inside. He can't exactly see Lincoln but he can sense him in the same way he senses injures, and that's _not_ good.

 

Grant switches on the light and what he sees isn't good either. Lincoln looks flushed and pale at the same time, and when Grant touches his forehead it's clear why. He doesn't even consider taking the temperature because Lincoln is burning up and shivering and Grant needs to do something _right now._

 

His hands are shaking as he's trying to convince Lincoln to unfold and roll to his back. Lincoln is shaking too; his eyes are unfocused and he's muttering nonsense. When he does roll over Grant kneels next to him, placing both hands on Lincoln's face, and for a moment or two Grant isn't aware he's saying things either. He stops only when Lincoln finally looks at him.

 

“Grant...”

 

“Shhh. I'm going to help you. Just relax.”

 

“Yes,” Lincoln nods. “It's...”

 

“Yeah?” Grant prods gently. It helps to know what is wrong, it helps Grant focus, and his body somehow knows what to do, how to direct that energy he possesses now.

 

“My... immune system. I did something back in SHIELD and …,” he manages and Grant nods. He doesn't need a reason or explanation. Those don't matter now. He needs to help Lincoln. He's scared. No, he's terrified because Lincoln looks and feels so weak, and he's burning up and this is possibly more dangerous that his wounds were.

 

Grant closes his eyes. He doesn't want to because he feels he could lose Lincoln if he doesn't keep him in sight. But he has to close his eyes for this, and that's why he can't afford himself to hesitate. Lincoln puts his hand on Grant's and it's weak but it's there. Grant focuses and... _lets himself go_.

 

He feels the familiar tug and he feels Lincoln, and he lets himself into the feeling of familiarity they've built. He explores, just like he always does when he does this, gently prods until he feels it. The damage. That's where Lincoln needs him.

 

He pours himself _right there_.

 

*

 

The sun is so gentle, Lincoln thinks. His body feels heavy and tired, but not in a bad way. Not any more. He opens his eyes, slowly and looks around. And surely, he recognizes his surroundings, he thinks he does at least. He shifts in bed until he's completely, absolutely comfortable, ignoring the faint smell of antiseptic and the med bay lights and....

 

And the he sees her. Daisy. With her hair long and her smile bright and she sits next to him and looks at him in that completely warm, accepting way and....

 

And then he's tugged away from the image and he's somewhere in some dark narrow space an she's there too, looking up at him softly and tugging at his vest and the kiss is such a surprise and his pulse is skyrocketing... and then he's watching her hitting the boxing bag and he feels annoyed, but also proud, he sees her jumping on the spot in her seat as she celebrates a victory over him, he sees her at the computer, he sees her waiting behind the door as he comes in from the snow and the cold he.... he sees her.

 

And then he realizes _what_ he's seeing.

 

He opens up his eyes for real now.

 

Grant is still focusing on fixing him. Lincoln glances around, realizing that they're in the living room, which probably means Grant carried him here at some point. It's warmer than other rooms, also it's practical because Grant can do other things and keep an eye on him. A moment later Grant opens his eyes and they look at each other. And Grant looks.... embarrassed.

 

“I... I'm.... -,” he looks away. “I'm sorry you saw that.”

 

Lincoln still feels overwhelmed because that was Daisy, and she looked so happy and he felt happy and warm and … he mattered. Someone was looking at him, not through him. And that's when he realizes those were Grant's emotions – tender and excited and shy, tentative and hopeful. Desires and lust and shame and fear and determination to protect her; pride and joy and strength and weakness he never truly felt before.

 

Lincoln tires to sit up realizing that this is almost like pulling on Grant's skin and using it.

 

Then he realizes that's exactly what Hive did.

 

“Grant...,” he starts, seeing how Grant is folding into himself. “I am sorry I -”

 

“No,” Grant says. “She... I have no right to think about her like that,” he says.

 

Lincoln blinks, staring at Grant until he realizes what Grant is trying to say. He continues.

 

“All I did was ruin her life. You were... are... much better for her.”

 

“Grant, please,” Lincoln says. He senses he needs to fix this right now, because if he lets it go, something will be irreparably ruined. Lincoln gets up somehow, willing his body to cooperate, which sets Grant into motion. His hands are at Lincoln's shoulders.

 

“ _What_ are you doing?”

 

“Not letting you leave, dammit. Sit down and I will sit down too.”

 

The blackmail works. Grant is still looking away for a moment, and then finally he faces Lincoln.

 

“I didn't deserve her trust,” he says. Lincoln recognizes the layers of regret, of shame and self loathing. He thinks carefully about how to respond.

 

“You cared for her and she cared for you,” Lincoln says. The memories are still so vivid in his mind, so warm and _alive_ and he realizes they're the first truly happy memories he witnessed from Grant. Lot of it is neutral, but a lot of it is downright traumatic. But this?

 

This is something that makes a man like Grant keep going.

 

Lincoln knows. He _knows._

 

“Yeah. But you … and Daisy -”

 

“That doesn't make what you feel any less important,” Lincoln says. He doesn't even need to think about it. “I love her. I don't own her.”

 

Grant stares at him, a bit more openly. There's less fear and shame in his features.

 

This was the most intense combination of memories to date, Lincoln realizes.

 

He _died_ , Lincoln thinks. His body died.. and yet, this is something that _survived._

 

How he felt, how he feels about her could simply not be killed because... because it's too good, too important. That one thing that keeps you going.

 

“She made you happy. She showed you what being happy feels like and that... that's incredibly important,” Lincoln says. “Nobody has the right to say that's wrong or to take it away.”

 

*

 

 


	7. Step outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We're going to the town,” Ward says almost casually over breakfast as he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She looks up – his hair is neat and slicked back and his cheeks are smooth and for a moment she's tempted to ask him if he got all pretty for some girl over there. “Would you like to come?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The previous chapter was about the boys acknowledging important feelings towards Daisy. In this chapter we're back at present - day time, with Daisy and them trying out and building up normalcy. If you haven't read the prequel called "Starlights" (I posted it a week or so ago, it's part of this series), this is a good time to do it.

“We're going to the town,” Ward says almost casually over breakfast as he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. She looks up – his hair is neat and slicked back and his cheeks are smooth and for a moment she's tempted to ask him if he got all pretty for some girl over there. “Would you like to come?”

 

She feels conflicted. Part of her just wants to stay holed up in here forever. She's fairly certain Grant would agree to feed her and let her go through his books, his records and wander close to the cabin as much as she wanted. Lincoln, though, is the one who prods her to move forward. 8And not just her; he does it with Grant too. It's strange because she used to do that for him back when he came to SHIELD, and now it's almost as if they've switched roles in some strange way – Lincoln is her, and Grant is Lincoln and she is.... well. She looks at Grant again. He's trying not to glance her way.)

 

She looks at Lincoln.

 

“You should come,” he says. “It's small and nice. And you'd probably want to get some stuff for you.”

 

She cocks her head and narrows her eyes at him. Almost like a joke. “Oh really?”

 

“Yes, really. I want my sweater back.”

 

She tries to gauge if he's serious. It takes her a little bit – which just reminds her how messed up she is, to have such kind of distance between him and her ability to understand what he meant. Lincoln of all people. He grins gently, though.

 

“I meant, you could probably find a prettier one for yourself,” he says, and he says it gently and that's something she remembers. Then her mind goes back to last December and that one awfully cold day they were away from the base and her face falls.

 

“Daisy?” he asks. Slowly she's staring to tell them things. She figures there's no point in holding them in.

 

“I just... remembered the last time we were getting sweaters,” she says. Then she looks at Grant, acutely aware he could easily feel left out. There's an entire part of her life where he was left out, when he simply wasn't around, but it's not just that. It's how she tried to keep him far away from her mind, even though he was in each and every of her movement. Because it was him who taught and trained her how to move like an agent, and those basic things you never unlearn.

 

“Here is always good time to get a sweater,” Grant says and it sounds like the blunt, stating – the – obvious agent she used to roll her eyes at.

 

At that point she's valiantly trying not to smile.

 

And Lincoln, damn him, senses it.

 

“He's right,” Lincoln says, making an exaggerated serious face.

 

She bites her lip. She can feel she's losing the battle. When her lips finally stretch it feels like breaking out of the prison. She's looking down, but she can still see that both of them are smiling too.

 

 

 

Guys make a joke out of it – the sweater buying mission is a go. There's no back seat in the old Ford Grant is driving, but she fits in the middle. At first she feels awkward but when the inside of the truck warms up, she lets it go and relaxes. She is safe, which is something she needs to remind herself of; and driving with them here is safe. Nobody is looking for her. Nobody even knows where she is.

 

That, that is such a comforting thought.

 

She sinks back into her seat and drinks in the imagery of the road winding along the shore, rare cars passing them by (and some people even waving at the guys); the trees and the falling leaves. She will soon need much warmer clothes than she has, even her warmest jacket that arrived with her from the base is barely enough to keep her warm here.

 

Which reminds her – the money. All she has is the amount she had hidden in the lining of that same bag Mack packed her clothes in.

 

Ward seems to read her mind.

 

“Don't worry about the money,” he says.

 

“I wasn't aware the fishing business is so rich?”

 

Grant grins at her being a smartass and that's the first time in forever that he does it, and her joke is just a joke.

 

“I kind of robbed Hydra,” he says then.

 

“You what?”

 

He shrugs. “They ruined my life and never paid for it, so I thought why not make them _pay_ me? SHIELD at least gave me regular paycheck,” he says like it's the most normal thing and she starts _giggling_. She wants to stop, but Lincoln and his snickering aren't helping her.

 

“That's _horrible_ ,” she says, giggles subsiding.

 

“Yep,” he agrees pretty cheerfully. “Dirty Hydra money they used to do no good will get a warm sweater for someone who fights for the greater good,” he says. It would kill the tentative light mood they're building up but Lincoln rolls his eyes and calls Grant a drama queen. Grant gives him a side eye that only serves to make Lincoln laugh more. 

 

 

They take the ferry. The ride lasts twenty minutes and the wind is blowing so hard, she has to wrap herself in a spare jacket she found inside the truck. It's comically too big but she doesn't care because she gets to stand at the railing and stare over the expanse of water. She looks at Ward standing next to her, at his hands which are calloused and rough and look so different from what she remembers. They still look familiar and pretty – she always thought he had pretty fingers – but the hard work shows on them now. Days and weeks and months of chopping wood and fishing and hauling heavy things and helping out in all and any kind of manual labor that his neighbors need.

 

Lincoln's hands are similar. Not as rough because he probably takes better care of them. She's still bewildered by the beard hiding half of his face, but it's growing on her. However she's glad to see that some of his old habits remained, which makes her wonder if there is anything left of her, anything at all that's even recognizable? She still has such hard time looking at the mirror.

 

They arrive at their goal fifteen minutes later. They take a walk, go to a diner where the lady owner greets them as heroes and soon she hears a story how Lincoln delivered a baby right here during a blizzard. Lincoln politely thanks for all the attention he gets from various people greeting him and Grant and Daisy catches the way Grant smiles. He's looking at Lincoln and smiling. It's a kind of smile she hasn't seen on him yet, small, barely there, very content.

 

“Were you there?” she asks and he nods.

 

“It was pretty amazing,” Grant says.

 

Those are pretty big words, coming from him.

 

They eat too much and go for a walk, find a small shopping mall and set out to find everything they need. The guys let her wander and pick the stuff for herself while they go through the list of things that need buying. Grant gives her an envelope with enough money to renew entire wardrobe if she pleases. She uses the time well and finds the clothes she's going to need here – because she isn't going anywhere anytime soon. She gets herself new jeans and warm leggings, cargo pants and several sweaters and thick socks. She finds a real, knee - long winter jacket that will stand the weather over here. Finally she indulges herself with two flannel shirts. The guys find her looking at a black leather jacket that's very pretty, but ultimately impractical. She decides she doesn't need something like that. 

 

“Got everything you wanted?” Lincoln asks and she nods. They wait until she pays and help her carry her bags to the truck.

 

“Forgot something,” Lincoln says while they're loading the truck. He and Grant share a look, and Lincoln quickly leaves.

 

She is about to go and sit inside when she remembers something. She tentatively looks at Grant wondering how he can trust her, after everything.

 

“I could get us take out coffee?” she suggests to him. He nods.

 

“I'll warm up the truck,” he says.

 

And he does – it's nicely warm heated she returns and they sit in comfortable silence, sipping coffee as they wait for Lincoln. It strikes her how normal it feels. How ordinary. How... _familiar._ Like the old days haven’t been such long time ago – she remembers feeling good around him, and she realizes she can feel good around him _now_. She's not sure what that means. 

 

(What a bad job she has actually done, keeping him away and out of her mind all that time?)

 

Lincoln arrives with another bag which he packs with everything else they've bought. He hops in and happily discovers a coffee waiting for him.

 

Daisy dozes off during the drive home.

 

She takes a long shower after they're there. Apparently, that was enough time for the guys to set up the surprise they managed to sneak in – she enters her room and finds the window decorated with star shaped lights.

 

She rushes down the stairs and finds them in the middle of a conversation that abruptly stops when they look up at her, standing in the middle of the staircase. And she'd say something but she's choking on all the meanings behind this gesture – the fact that Lincoln remembered and the fact that Grant agreed to do something that was her and Lincoln's thing; and the thing those lights meant back then at the base and maybe what they mean even more so right now.

 

When she first came here, she felt so cold. She slept under three blankets.

 

She is staring at the two men in the kitchen. Both Grant and Lincoln are looking up at her and at that point she realizes how much her getting better means to both of them.

 

She realizes too, how much warmer she feels.

 

 

 

 


	8. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a slow process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going back in time again, to boys realizing something must be wrong if Daisy has left SHIELD and gone rogue. 
> 
> Parallel to that, in present time, Daisy's recovery is advancing.

There's one thing about recovery that's enduring and universal: it's boredom. Lincoln remembers hearing that from patients, he remembers sympathizing with the people cooped up and struggling to regain themselves after an injury or a long illness, but only now he thoroughly understands how it actually feels. Immune system is an invisible thing. It works in the background, making sure everything else is able to run safely. That's the system he willingly wrecked months ago when he subjected himself as a guinea pig, and wasn't aware that Grant's efforts didn't fix it all the way. Lincoln has theories about that – he has lots of thoughts and theories about how Grant's abilities actually work, and the doctor in him craves understanding. He was a transitioner. That's what Grant is actually going through right now, and Lincoln keeps wondering if he's doing enough, and if he's doing things correctly. This is the only time when he misses SHIELD as an organization, its labs and resources. (He also misses Afterlife, keenly and painfully, and keeps going back to the thoughts of that life, happy and calm life, and has to pull himself out of that again and again. That's done. It's gone, it will never come back. He has a duty now. He can't let Grant down. He _can't and he won't_. Everyone else did.) He would like to see if Grant's DNA is different than regular human one (he guesses it is), he would like to test his abilities and take a closer look at his organism, and figure out a way to help him take care of himself. Over here he has no way of knowing what happens to Grant's body and mind during night time, what happens to his cortisol levels after those dreams and memory flashbacks; how does his body recuperate after a healing session – all the answers that really _should_ be answered. Lincoln feels he has to help him. He knows nobody else will, nobody would bother or understand. He also knows that nobody helped him, not truly, not in the way it mattered.

 

He focuses on the mess on the table in front of him. Grant is a good cook, but he doesn't bake. That includes bread. Lincoln feels it's something simple enough he can do while being cooped up day in and day out. It's easy actually, and it requires good timing and patience and after a couple of tries Lincoln masters it. He gets up at four am to knead the dough and leave it for an hour and a half. Then he gets up again. By the time the bread is out of the oven, he makes the coffee as well. Grant just doesn't function before coffee, and in a way Lincoln finds it amusing for someone who probably had to forgo a lot of coffees in his life. (He decides it's better to think of it as amusing rather than tragic.)

 

He observes Grant that one particular morning when he realizes whom Grant reminds him of.

 

Daisy.

 

The grumpiness before getting her first cup of coffee, the way she'd let him indulge her with it, the way he could tease a smile out of her. It's a realization Lincoln carefully studies, and stores for later, not knowing exactly what to do with it right now.

 

Two days later he's kneading bread and watching TV when he sees something that makes him freeze.

 

 

*

 

“It's her,” Lincoln says. Grant can almost feel how anxious he is as they go through news reports on Grant's old laptop. “Quake,” Lincoln reads and frowns.

 

“Not familiar?”

 

“Daisy would never call herself that,” he says.

 

“Pretentious,” Grant agrees.

 

“The descriptions fit her, though,” Lincoln says. The same few lines repeat in several articles, describing her and the way her powers work. There's a pixelated video of a short woman waving her hands at which a building in front of her collapses. “What's going on?” Lincoln is repeating.

 

Grant presses his lips together, mentally removing himself from Lincoln's anxiety. If he doesn't it's going to invite his own feelings, which won't help anyone.

 

Sliding under the skin of _Agent Grant Ward, I can shoot a fly mid flight_ is easier than he imagines. He reads ten different articles, Lincoln beside him, looking for facts first. After that he reads them again, looking for what's between the lines.

 

“Did you pick up on the vague mention of some new government security committee?” Grant asks and Lincoln grimly nods.

 

“The holy inquisition?”

 

“Yes, you could call them that too.”

 

Lincoln takes a deep breath. “Okay, that's... _not_ like Daisy at all. She doesn't just go around tearing down businesses and destroying buildings.”

 

Grant nods. No, that's not like Skye (or Daisy, he assumes). She's the one with arrow straight morals, the one who believes doing good has to be done in the right way. Not in any way necessary. That's him.

 

“There has to be a reason,” Lincoln says, and they set out to look further. Grant starts explaining what he's looking for – any sort of connection between – so far – three of Quake's targets. It doesn't take long to find out that three companies seem to be owned by two brothers, that they don't seem to have a clean record, and finally they run into a couple of blogs connecting them and trafficking.

 

Of Inhumans.

 

But there is another interesting thing that they find, in unrelated articles that pop up three or four times. SHIELD had a new director.

 

“Carnston,” Lincoln reads and looks at Grant. “Is he Hydra?”

 

“No,” Grant says. “But I do know his name from somewhere, and that usually isn't a good thing.”

 

 

*

 

There's a brand of German juice mixed with sparkling water. It comes in either bottles or cans, but either way it's disgusting. It's also completely addictive – not in the wrong way, though – and Lincoln has no desire to stop drinking them. It probably didn't pass unnoticed because Grant keeps bringing them from the store, foregoing beer for himself. At this point all they have at home is canned sparkling juice.

 

Lincoln's mind pauses at the word “home” for a moment.

 

Lincoln places two cans on the table. Grant seems lost in thought one moment; then he looks at Lincoln, as if he's surprised with the small kindness. “Would you prefer coffee?”

 

“Maybe later,” he says.

 

They sit in silence at first. Lincoln thinks about how he never truly saw Grant working – he doesn't mean the physical work, but this – what used to be his real work. Things he was trained for and things he was actually famous for.

 

It's long work, and it's hard work. Grant explains what he's doing, he explains why, he patiently lets Lincoln in on the logic of piecing together seemingly unrelated information. It helps that they're both doing this, because Lincoln keeps asking questions, and he asks good questions. The information starts to gain shape, Daisy so obviously leaving SHIELD and Inhumans being hunted but without any public comment and without much noise. Daisy targeting specific companies and people who all seem to be connected. They spend days on this, until Grant finally decides they have enough.

 

What Lincoln expects next is for them to _do_ something, but that's not what Grant plans.

 

“Tell me,” Grant says the morning when Lincoln's impatience takes the better off him and he demands Grant to tell him what should be done next. Lincoln is looking at the improvised boxing bag Grant is setting up in their back yard. “Did they teach you nothing at SHIELD? If we're going to go out there, you can't go unprepared.”

 

*

 

Recovery is boring. That's what Lincoln told her yesterday when he examined her arms and shoulders to see how her bruising was healing. 8It was strange – it was still there, not painful but still very visible. It was one of the reasons why Daisy didn't want to look in the mirror. It reminded her that everything was gone, including her ability to recover.)

 

Daisy squares her shoulders and paces her room and thinks she will go out of her mind. Lincoln's explanation doesn't help one bit, the smile he gave her as he said it doesn't help either. It's almost as if he's amused by her antics.

 

The guys let her do whatever she pleases. They don't have demands other that she takes care of herself in physical sense – and that is driving her mad too. She is far too used to have tasks to do. She lacks the feeling of purpose, she even misses the pressure of having to do something before its too late.

 

She needs to _do_ something.

 

She starts out small. Carries the chopped firewood into the house and stacks it neatly. Makes sure there's always enough of it. Washes the dishes and puts them away. Folds the towels much more neatly than the guys ever could.

 

And then one day she finds it, and she feels like she just uncovered the greatest treasure there is.

 

She finds a camera.

 

She knows she should ask the guys about it. This place belongs to Grant – it's not something they discussed but she just knows it – which means the camera is probably his as well. But once she finds it, and takes it and starts to use it, it's done. There's something deep within her that knows he's not going to say no. And as she takes more and more photos with the high resolution digital camera which Grant probably got for spying purposes, she conveniently doesn't examine her conviction.

 

At some point they had to notice. She was filling the hard drive of the laptop with photographs. She was standing on the porch early in the morning, wearing too little clothes and shivering while trying to capture the sunrise.

 

One morning, she finds a coffee cup on the railing when she goes out to hunt for the sun.

 

Her little act of thievery isn't only acknowledged and known. It's also accepted and supported.

 

 

*

 

It's evening when she sits at the dining table and scrolls through the photos she has made last week when Grant sits across from her. There's a bit of hesitation in his posture, insecurity that's carefully hidden among the lines of his face when he asks.

 

“Can I... see them?”

 

She's surprised, enough to nod the every moment the question leaves his mouth. There's a small smile on his lips when she does, and he gets up; and Daisy realizes the amount of relief that washes through her. She's not sure _why_. He walks around the table and pulls up a chair, sitting next to her and looking at the screen. Then he gives her a look that prompts an explanation.

 

“It's the sunrise,” she says, even though it's obvious. But he doesn't say anything, he looks at her photographs as she pulls one after another. There are a lot of sunrises, pictures taken from the porch or one specific spot in the yard. Sun is coming through the branches and it makes the new snow glow orange and red and it looks pretty spectacular. The sunrise, that is. She feels like she's trying to capture that, but doesn't think she can do it justice. She tells him just that. He observes the photos and she lets him scroll through them – it's his laptop, she realizes, it's just that she's been treating it like her own lately – he pauses at one picture that she likes in particular.

 

“It looks like you're looking for something,” he says.

 

She shrugs. Not because she's not sure, but because she's not quite ready to talk about that.

 

There's a thing that happens when she takes these photos, especially those she takes outside the house. It reminds her of the moments in afterlife, of staring at the mountain in the distance and learning how to feel it. How to connect with the buzzing in the world around her, and the buzzing in her veins, embracing it as something special and only hers. She remembers the vibrations of the snow when she sent it crashing down for the first time.

 

The _connection_.

 

She looks at Grant and remembers feeling connected to Hive. She is acutely aware of the lack of that connection now, the emptiness in her blood where buzz used to be.

 

But when she looks through the lens she gets lost. And for a moment, for a split of the second she admires the world outside of her so much, that she manages to feel one with it again.

 

“I like them,” he says, still scrolling when he pauses at a picture of himself. It's his turn to be surprised when he clicks to enlarge it. Daisy feels mortified, something similar to that moment when they met and he accused her of being a sweaty cosplay girl. Except this is different, a lot more... _intimate_. She remembers taking this photo and seeing Grant through the camera almost as if she saw him clearly for the first time. And at the same time, she feels familiarity with it, with every line of his body trapped mid movement in the picture.

 

The picture is black and white, Grant's figure against cloudy sky as he's lowering the ax on the chopping block. There's steam of his breath around him, half hiding his face. There's something special about the picture, something Daisy can't quite verbalize.

 

“I'll delete it if you want to,” she says, even though she doesn't want to. But she feels she has overstepped her lines so heavily. He shakes his head at that and gives her a kind look, and once again she feels _such relief_.

 

“No,” he says quickly, “I mean, you don't have to. I mean I don't mind,” he says, looking at the picture. “It's... I didn't realize I looked like that.”

 

She opens her mouth. “It would look even better if someone better at this took the photo,” she says. He looks at her. Did she just tell him he's attractive? She tries to give him a self deprecating smile, one of those she used to give him so long ago, but it feels like her face is put of practice. “Um, I mean, it would look like... one of those photos in National Geographic. Man and the nature and all that,” she says, and she's pretty sure she's blushing. He's smiling, in a manner she hasn't seen in forever -and she realizes she just made him _happy_. He seems at loss for words, so he looks down to hide the soft look on his face, one that reminds her of that moment when she kissed him for the first time.

 

Her heart does _not_ do that silly pitter patter. _No_. (She wonders if his does too. If she would feel it, if her powers weren't gone. She wonders all the things what are the things she could learn about him if she could still feel his vibrations, and for a moment she grieves over all the missed opportunities that she will never get back.)

 

They're looking through her photos like two embarrassed teenagers. There are more pictures of Grant, and also pictures of Lincoln, carrying fishing equipment and making bread. There is a close up of Lincoln's hands, which she likes photographing – and God, she misses his hands. Grant keeps smiling.

 

She misses that too.

 

Daisy wishes for her camera. There are, after all, different kinds of sunrises.

 

 


	9. Loyalties, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy and Grant share a long overdue conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started working on a new chapter and realized I should probably separate it into two chapters. Anyway, you'll probably notice that Lincoln discovered something unsettling - it's going to be discussed in detail soon, but the discussion about his discovery had to be properly set up. hence this little (but important) development between Skye and Grant. 
> 
> Also, if anyone out there who reads this story can/knows how to make gifsets, I would be forever thankful if you made something with Skye/Grant/Lincoln. Since the show denied us interaction between three of them on screen (and had they done it, they'd probably ruin all the wonderful possibilities for interaction between these three characters) - anyway, since we never got to see them on screen, I find gifsets to be the next best thing. Something like tiny movie trailers and stuff of total magic that can make almost any pairing (or ot3!) come to life. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and the reviews! <33333

 

She's awake before sunrise. That's not a problem because she goes to bed earlier than she used to. There's something about the rhythm of sunrise and sunset here, the way the night gathers thickly over the snow covered landscape and the only way to beat the cold out of your bones s to get proper rest.

 

She can hear movement in the kitchen as she gets up and pulls on layers of clothing before coming out of her room. There's smell of coffee in the air. She knows the sight she will find – Lincoln, and the messy kitchen table. Her heart picks up a beat. She almost hurries down the stairs.

 

Daisy stops before she enters the kitchen. Lincoln is there, but he's not kneading the bread. He doesn't smile over his shoulder when she enters. Instead, everything is already neatly put away, and he is sitting at the table, laptop in front of him, and reading something. She notices concern on his face, tension in his shoulders.

 

“Lincoln?”

 

He almost jumps.

 

“Daisy!”

 

“Hi?” she says. She's not sure what's going on, but something definitely is going on. He's shutting down the laptop and getting up from the table and she's looking at him in confusion. “Uh, sorry if I interrupted you,” she says.

 

“Uh, no. No, no, you didn't. I just … uh. Forgot about the time,” he says.

 

“Are you going somewhere?” she asks, as he looks around almost as if he's looking for something.

 

“No, um, not really, but I do have to prepare -” the rest of his answer gets lost.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I forgot,” he says. “I promised Dave I'd come to check on his mother in law.”

 

He leaves the laptop on the table, but takes some kind of flash drive with him. Daisy frowns, realizing she hasn't seen it before. It loos familiar, it looks like one of those secure storage models SHIELD used, but Lincoln was pretty quick to pick it up. She tells herself it's probably nothing, watching him pour the coffee in a mug for her. She can't shake the feeling that his smile comes out forced and doesn't quite reach his eyes as he sets the mug down in front of her. “You have fun today,” he says. There's something in his face she can't read. His eyes are filled with some strange sort of regret as he practically runs to the bathroom.

 

Half an hour later she's still in the kitchen, finishing her coffee and staring at her camera.

 

She hears the engine start and reaches the window in time to see him drive away.

 

*

 

The engine is what wakes Grant. Reaching for Lincoln is an automatic response now. He finds the bed empty, and Lincoln's spot next to him cold.

 

It's still somewhat dark outside, and Grant doubts it's Daisy who took the pickup. He gets up quickly and gets dressed, listening carefully for any sounds. When he comes to the kitchen, he finds the camera on the dining table and sees Daisy through the window, leaning against the porch railing.

 

“Hey,” she says as he steps out. He's brought the spare jacket, because, of course she didn't care of putting hers on. He gently drops it on her shoulders and sees her small movement of glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

 

“You'll catch a cold like that,” he says.

 

“Thanks, mom,” she says. It comes out quiet and somehow discontent.

 

“Where did he go?”

 

“To see Dave,” she answers.

 

“Dave?”

 

She shrugs. “Apparently Dave's mom in law isn't feeling well again,” Daisy adds.

 

“Oh,” Grant says. He'll have to call Dave later. This winter has been rough on the tiny old lady.

 

“Did you eat anything?” Grant asks, figuring that Lincoln won't be back for couple of hours at least. He probably didn't eat either, especially if there was something urgent. Well, Grant can at least properly feed Daisy and make a good lunch. Lincoln is going to come back pretty hungry, so he'll appreciate food as well.

 

“No,” she says. “But pancakes would be great,” she adds and grins and he's happy to see her smile. “How about that?”

 

“Sure,” he agrees easily. He'll make her a ton of pancakes. He'll do pretty much anything she wants him to.

 

*

 

They go about the day as usual. Lincoln sends a text when Grant is in the middle of making the lunch, saying he won't be back by late afternoon. He doesn't explain why, but it's not really necessary. This isn't new, if someone further away from the town needed a doctor, Lincoln would just keep on driving. The small community works like that – far away neighbors know whom they can call if they need something. Grant and Lincoln keep nearly everyone supplied with firewood. They're young, they're strong, they have the means to do it. There's a lot of old people living here, and there are quite a few families with children. Snow can cause accidents, cars break down, there are a lot of things that can go wrong way during a winter like this. Grant knows Lincoln can look after himself so he doesn't give much thought to his message.

 

Daisy is helping him cook today – honestly, those potatoes would be peeled faster if he was the one doing it, and he certainly wouldn't cut himself.

 

“Ugh,” she says and blinks angrily at her bleeding finger.

 

“Here, let me,” he says, turning on the cold water. She puts the cut finger under the cold stream while he goes looking for first aid kit. The whole process of him patting her hand dry and putting a band aid on the small cut goes with her staring like in some kind of stupor. “You used to jump three feet high when you did something like that,” he says, and he says it without much thought. He can feel the change in her posture and that prompts him to look up. He's not sure if he can read her expression well – or at all – she seems hesitant and she seems touched and there's something like a tiny smile on her lips. “Sorry,” he says.

 

“For what?” she asks and smiles for real. He can feel relief, starting somewhere inside his chest and washing through him in waves even as she asks.

 

“I... didn't want to remind you of... you know,” he says. Their past is constantly tehre, like some kind of living wall standing stubbornly between them. She presses her lips together and looks at her hand. He can see a flashback in his mind's eye, an image seen through Hive's eyes – the creature mentioning him  and Daisy looking away, trying to hide mixed feelings sweeping across her face. _He was fond of you, Grant Ward_ ; the creature said. And Hive knew, or could feel it – because they were connected – that it was far from simple for her, far from her being done with him; that there was pain and regret and things inside her chest that were warm and soft and hurting. He can say plenty of things, he can look her in the eye and accept all the blame, claim all his faults, but he doesn't know how to talk about this.

 

She keeps looking at him softly. “It's not going to go away, you know. The past,” she says.

 

“No, I guess not,” he agrees.

 

“I believe you,” she says then. She says it resolutely and she says it with conviction and squares her shoulders to straighten her spine. “When yous aid... you didn't want to hurt me. When you said you'd never lie again. When... you said you were sorry,” she says. “The stuff you did it's still...,” hurt passes across her face as she looks down. He nods quickly and swallows everything that might have come out of his mouth. He makes himself stay in place, when he wants to pull her close and comfort her. It's a privilege he doesn’t think he deserves.

 

“I know,” he says.

 

“But we can't avoid it forever,” she says. “Because there were good things too.”

 

He swallows thickly. She smiles.

 

“Anyway. I should...”

 

“Oh no,” he says quickly. “I want rest of your fingers to stay whole,” he adds.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yes. I'm taking you somewhere where you can make nice photos.”

 

 

*

 

 

He definitely wasn't wrong when he said she would take nice photos here. Daisy stares at the wide landscape in front of her. It might not be a very tall hill, but once on top, breathing hard from the long walk and climb, she takes dozens of photographs. Grant is content to stand next to her and observe the scattered houses far and below, the road, the woods, the sea in the distance. Daisy keeps taking photos until her fingers are so cold, she can't any more. Then she stuffs her hands into her pockets and starts bouncing on the spot. There's something about the harsh cold, the snow and the distant sun. Everything that happened to her, everything that ate her inside out seems so distant here.

 

“Simmons did it,” she says simply. It's easier than she thought it would be – Grant looks at her with the familiar expression on her face, the intelligent expression, concerned eyes, mind seeking comprehension as she talks. She tells him about being caught by SHIELD, and how it didn't feel like the same organization she used to work with. How people couldn't look her in the face. How Simmons told her this was for her own good. In the middle of her tale she starts throwing branches and rocks at the nearby tree. She keeps missing.

 

Grant silently joins her. To her surprise he isn't very precise either.

 

She doesn't have to tell Grant how she feels. How furious or betrayed or used. She knows that he knows. He moves to stand a little closer.

 

“It's tricky, you know,” he says. “Meaning you don't notice it. You assign your loyalty to a cause, a mission... or a person, and soon you've given your loyalty _away._ You don't understand they're controlling you by your sense of duty,” he says.

 

She gives him a surprised look, which he doesn't seem to notice, or rather, he probably does. He just isn't surprised. “You're apologizing her actions,” Daisy says. “Simmons. Who tired to kill you.”

 

“I'm not apologizing anything,” he says calmly, and he's Agent Grant Ward, Skye's SO all over again. She might have gone through so much stuff, but she will never have the same level of experience with that shady side of the business that he has. “I'm explaining. She betrayed you and your friendship, yes. But she betrayed herself first.”

 

Daisy swallows hard. The pain in her chest when she merely thinks about Simmons is so strong, she can barely rein in the following anger. The hurt. How can he talk about it all so calmly?

 

“How.. can you know?”

 

“Because it's always the same way, Daisy,” he says. “It always happens the same way,” he says.

 

She makes herself look at him. It takes monumental effort – but when she does he's just this lonely man, standing next to her with his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking at the distance stretching in front of them. And she knows he's talking about himself, but then she realizes, it's about her as well. It's about believing so much in one thing, putting all your belief there only to realize later what you've done. The damage you caused because you wouldn't look around you. Because you kept staring at just one thing, telling yourself it's your goal. The _greater good_. What a neat way to keep your conscience silenced.

 

“You didn't deserve any of this,” he says carefully.

 

Daisy nods. She realizes she's mimicking his exact position, with her hands in her pockets and her faraway stare. She looks at him again.

 

“Neither did you,” she says.

 

*

 


	10. Need (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lincoln returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, the longest chapter yet, in which these three face the biggest emotional challenge so far. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my friend stargazerdaisy who helped SO MUCH with his chapter (and with every other), virtually held my hand and discussed these three until we both passed out from exhaustion. She's the best friend you could wish for. <33333

Grant almost doesn't hear the pickup.

 

He's distracted. He's so thoroughly distracted and the noise of the truck being parked is so normal, he almost doesn't react. On the other hand, the over-trained, completely different than before Daisy doesn't, that's how focused she is, which is actually good.

 

“How's this?” she asks.

 

“You're doing it wrong,” he says.

 

“You're just jealous,” she says.

 

“I'm most definitely not jealous at your determination to hack your leg off,” he answers, trying not to smile.

 

She lowers the ax on the chopping block and the piece of wood breaks in half.

 

“Ha!”

 

“You're still not using it without supervision,” Grant is saying exactly at the moment when Lincoln steps out of the truck.

 

“Oh? Does this mean I'm about to be replaced at this awful task?” Lincoln asks as he crosses his arms. He's sharing a pointed look with Grant that Daisy doesn't notice.

 

“Yes,” Grant says, “If you want to reattach her feet when she chops them off on accident.”

 

Lincoln smiles slowly. He looks tired, and his face stretches too slow, but he's glad that Daisy is having fun in some way.

 

“Well I brought something,” Lincoln says. They both look up as Lincoln is pulling something off passengers seat of the truck.

 

Pizza boxes.

 

“Oh wow,” Daisy says. “Three pizzas?”

 

“That guy doesn't share,” Lincoln points at Ward, “and I'm so hungry I could eat a horse.”

 

“Did you not eat all day?” Grant asks even as Daisy grabs all three boxes from Lincoln and carries them inside, declaring pizza can't be eaten cold.

 

“It was... didn't catch the time,” Lincoln mumbles.

 

“Hey,” Grant says now that they're alone. “Is everything okay?”

 

Lincoln nods. “I'm just tired,” he says.

 

Grant isn't completely convinced. However there's no time to ask through the rest of the afternoon and evening, and Lincoln excuses himself early, goes to shower and doesn't show up in the kitchen any more. Grant spends some time with Daisy until they're both yawning so hard, it's clear they should both go to bed.

 

When Grant slips into his bed, Lincoln is there, tightly curled on his side. Grant presses close to his back and relaxes when he feels the warmth. Sleeping next to someone for months has completely ruined him; now he wants to feel warm and connected, and he wants it right away. Lincoln moves in his sleep, uncurls a little, enough for grant to slip his hand around and find Lincoln's fingers. He presses his nose against Lincoln's neck, thankful that this doesn't bother Lincoln at all, closes his eyes and falls asleep.

 

*

 

The next morning is ordinary, but Daisy can't shake the feeling that something isn't right.

 

She gets up and puts clothes on and hurries out to take the photos. She has coffee and breakfast after that and the guys go through the plan for the day. She volunteers to clean the bathroom and tires to find more duties for herself. Rearranging the bookshelf in the dining room is completely unnecessary, but she wants to do it, simply to have something to do with her hands. Two of them let her, and she's aware they're indulging her. In some past life she'd protest. Daisy Johnson doesn't need to be indulged. Daisy Johnson doesn't want to. She's all business. She doesn't think about it now. Grant is content to cook, even though it's his turn to do the heavy stuff outside. Lincoln insists he will do it.

 

Daisy notices he sounds cranky, but Grant lets him be.

 

It happens in the middle of her bookshelf rearranging. She's standing on a wooden chair, taking bunch of books about growing olive trees (she wonders where on earth did Ward get these and why, except for them looking pretty) when she hears Grant curse under his breath. There's a painful hiss to his voice that makes her abandon her task immediately – it takes her three strides to the kitchen, where he's stinging at the sink, grumbling at his bleeding palm.

 

For a moment Daisy just stares.

 

She runs towards Grant without thinking. It's almost like back then, when she found him on the floor after touching the beserker staff. She grabs his hand and the kitchen towel, and she's trying to help by pressing the cloth against his skin. It's not helping because the cut is probably too big and soon the fabric is soaked through and there's red blood staining her fingers too.

 

And she stares again. She hears gunshots. She doesn't wait to see him bleeding except she knows he kept on bleeding. And maybe he still is.

 

“Daisy?” he asks with concern. Her hands are visibly shaking.

 

“I'll get Lincoln,” she says. “He's a doctor.”

 

She runs out. Lincoln looks up and sees her before she reaches him.

 

“What happened?” he asks, panic on his face reflecting how she feels.

 

“Grant's bleeding,” she says. Lincoln hurries to the house and she follows.

 

If they both thought she overreacted, they don't show it. Lincoln goes to bring the med kit and he disinfects and wraps Grant's hand. Daisy is hovering near them, holding her breath.

 

“It's going to be okay, Skye,” Grant says. Nobody corrects him.

 

*

 

Rest of the day goes in progressively sour mood. It's like someone cracked a glass and the damage just kept spreading until Lincoln disappeared somewhere and Grant went searching for some piece of equipment and Daisy was left in the dining room adjoining the kitchen.

 

It's the center of their... home. She rolls the word over her mind. She has no other home now. They did everything in their power to make her feel welcome, up to now. Lincoln is distant and feels somehow off and won't look her in the eye and without her powers – her senses – she can't begin to guess what's going on. Did she say something?

 

She almost doesn't hear Grant when he comes inside.

 

“Did you two have a fight?”

 

So, it looks _that_ bad.

 

She shakes her head. Maybe she should feel uncomfortable, because Grant Ward of all people is able to read her like this. She doesn't have it in her, though. She keeps wondering what she should do with herself if she somehow ruined _this._

 

This is the only thing she has left.

 

And two of them, and -

 

There's that burning sensation in her eyes, and her vision gets blurry.

 

“I'll talk to him,” Grant says quietly, and his palm lads softly on her shoulder and or a moment she feels assured and protected.

 

She's not alone. Grant makes her feel _not alone_. 

 

*

 

Finding Lincoln proves to be more difficult than Grant expects. He's nowhere in the yard, or outside near the house. Grant finds him in his room, one that they keep neat and welcoming, but use it mostly to put clothes and other things away.

 

Lincoln looks awkward and strange curled onto his side, on a bed he barely uses. Grant lets himself in and sits next to Lincoln. After a couple of minutes Lincoln sits up too. He was tense all day long, and now Grant can see and feel tension leaving his body. He waits, until almost all of it is gone. Lincoln's shoulders sag.

 

“Tell me,” Grant prompts.

 

“It's my fault,” Lincoln answers almost immediately, as if he couldn't wait to get this out of himself for ages. Grant lets him explain at his own pace. Lincoln's eyes are fixed at the spot on the floor, , sometimes moving to his hands. “The medicine that was used to take her powers. It was made thanks to the research I did with Simmons,” he says and then looks at Grant.

 

Grant pauses. Lincoln does _not_ look good. His first instinct is to pull him close and convince him that it wasn't his fault, but Grant knows that Lincoln doesn't work like that.

 

And Lincoln is... he's taking this badly. He's trying not to cry. Grant just sits there, with a hand gently resting on Lincoln's knee; just there, enough to tell him he's present and listening, but not too much, not pushing.

 

And Lincoln does cry. Tears roll down his cheeks and end up caught in his beard. Grant lets him take as much as he needs – after that he starts telling him more: about the Inhuman vaccine, about the fight he had with Daisy then and how much she was against it. How viciously they fought over it. How he was convinced he was doing the thing that's right, making it possible for others to choose never to deal with the powers; how sometimes he still hates his own powers, how incredible and amazing it was to see Daisy master her own.

 

How fundamental it was for her. It helped her redefine herself, find another purpose.

 

And now that was taken away from her, thanks to him.

 

“So you wanna be responsible for other people's actions?” Grant asks gently.

 

“I made it _possible_ ,” Lincoln says.

 

“You made lot of things possible with that drug,” Grant argues. “But Simmons, and SHIELD picked among the possibilities. For all their knowledge you're dead, right? And you were their friend. And they chose to disrespect everything you stood for, when you were there.”

 

Lincoln looks up and it seems realizations are forming in his mind as his eyes turn from surprised to grim.

 

“SHIELD doesn't play fairly,” Grant says.

 

“I know.”

 

“I'm sorry they did this to you.”

 

“They used me,” Lincoln decides. “That's what they do to people.”

 

Grant doesn't comment on that. He knows he was used. By everyone. And still, if put in the same circumstances... he doesn't know how he'd avoid making the same mistakes.

 

Lincoln shakes his head, almost as if he can read Grant's mind. “There's no use thinking about that.”

 

“No,” Grant says. “But you need to talk to Daisy.”

 

Lincoln squares his shoulders and he looks almost scared but he nods. It's a moment when Grant feels and knows closeness is needed, so he slides his hand into Lincoln's. “She needs it. She needs you. And you know not telling her will only make the things worse.”

 

Lincoln nods.

 

“Don't make my mistake, Lincoln,” Grant says, drawing closer until their foreheads are touching. Lincoln lightly shakes his head.

 

“You're the best person that I know,” Grant says.

 

 

*

 

For a moment she tries to process it. Mack, the files, the fact that all this time Lincoln has been researching if her powers could somehow _come back,_ and that makes her more angry than the other fact – that Jemma used _Lincoln's_ research to... _permanently_ _damage her_ , and other Inhumans.

 

“That wasn't your fault,” she says, feeling the indignant anger over the fact that Lincoln is so upset. That he looks _so broken_. God, it's not anger. She feels rage. If she had her powers now, shelves would be shaking.

 

Like he didn't suffer enough? How _dare_ they?

 

“But I feel responsible,” he says.

 

“Bullshit,” she answers, and both men look at her. (She's cursing out loud. That's new. They notice. They notice everything because they _care_.) “You can't be responsible for what other people do,” Daisy says.

 

Lincoln shakes his head, giving her a mirthless smile. “Grant said that.”

 

“Did he? Well I _agree_ with him. You might just make a note of that. _Daisy Johnson agrees with Grant Ward_ : you can't take the blame for someone else.”

 

Daisy looks at Grant. He gives her something like a smile.

 

“I'll let you guys talk about it,” he says, making a retreat through the door and leaving the house.

 

Daisy looks at Lincoln. “Look,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself, standing in front of him. He's sitting at the dining table and even like that he is almost taller than she is. She looks around the space that belongs to Grant but at this point, reflects all three of them – daisy rearranged it, Lincoln makes sure it's always warm, and Grant does everything in order to keep them happily fed. “You can't.... do this. Let yourself just...,” she doesn't finish that thought. She cannot think about anything even remotely similar to losing him again, in any capacity. “I need you to... be here,” she manages.

 

He inhales. “You were right,” he says. She sighs, feeling she might bang her head against his. Because he is always like this, putting himself last. That almost killed him. _She believed he died_. She lived in a world without him for so long, and she can't do that any more.

 

“Maybe?” She says, certain of what he's referring to. “ _So what_ if I was right?”

 

“So everything,” he says, and oh God, she missed his stubbornness. But she shakes her head, because no. No, no, _no;_ not again.

 

“I _can't.._. watch you beat yourself over this,” she says. “ _I can't_....,” she repeats and the fight is going out of her. She feels helpless to reach for him again and watch him decide against her. His expression changes and he stands up, shaking his head. “Please, Lincoln. _I cannot_ handle this. I can't.”

 

He nods. For a moment it occurs to her she's blackmailing him, but she doesn't have any strength, anything in her left to reason with him through it. She _needs_ _him_ to be there, in the kitchen early in the morning, waiting for her with a cup of coffee. Needs. “Please, Lincoln. You're.... the best person I know. In need you.”

 

And he knows that.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“ _Okay_.”

 

 

*

 

Grant concludes quickly that whatever they talked about, the conversation with Daisy must have been hard.

 

This time, Lincoln is sitting on his side of Grant's bed. It's their bed, in every way that matters, and there have been only a handful of nights that they have spent apart ever since getting together. Seeing Lincoln isolating himself the previous night is just telling. There isn’t anything that truly matters, that two of them don't know about each other – down to the fact that Lincoln likes pistachio ice cream and Grant hates it.

 

Grant pauses to think how the conversation should have been something that brought certain relief. Maybe he's naïve. Maybe he really did believe Skye all that time ago. Maybe conversations are important, but forgiving yourself is a whole another matter. It doesn't work if there's nobody willing to show you that you're forgiven.

 

“I told her,” Lincoln says and sighs. “I explained. And she acts as if... it's not important.”

 

Grant sits next to him.

 

“To her it's not,” he tells Lincoln carefully. “Not any more. Other things are far more important than this.”

 

“It _is_ important,” Lincoln insists. “It's...,” he looks at his hands and moves his fingers. “I helped them ruin her. I know that. I can't just wish it away.”

 

“I know,” Grant tells him. “But you didn't lie. You didn't hide anything. You weren't dishonest.”

 

“That matters, I guess,” Lincoln says.

 

“It does,” Grant replies, placing his hand on Lincoln's knee. “ _So much_.”

 

Lincoln looks at him. His eyes are wet and red rimmed again and the sight makes Grant's chest hurt.

 

“It's not about me, Grant. It's not about how I feel. It's about what I made possible. And I can't just -”

 

“I know,” Grant says, coming to sit closer to Lincoln. They're almost leaning against each other. “I know.”

 

“I can't just keep going like nothing happened.”

 

“I know. But the thing is, you have to _keep going_ ,” Grant explains. Lincoln seeks out Grant's hand, the one that's been resting on his knee. He shakes his head and tries to smile, tries to say something but the words die halfway out of his mouth. Instead of that he covers his eyes with his free hand and starts to cry.

 

It's quiet but wrecking – his entire body seems to shake with the effort of staying absolutely quiet as Grant pulls him close. And Grant lets him cry, allows him to let it all out, until Lincoln draws back on his own and rests his forehead against Grant's.

 

“Let me take care of you,” Grant says, stroking his face. Lincoln hesitates, trying to deny himself comfort, until he can't any more. Grant feels a tear rolling down Lincoln's cheek as Lincoln presses his face close. “You always take care of me. Let me take care of you this time.”

 

The first kiss is hesitant and soft. “I've got you,” Grant says. The next one just a bit bolder. Grant waits until Lincoln is ready to cooperate, to accept everything Grant can offer. It might not be much, but on Grant's part it's everything. They kiss slowly and it takes awhile until Lincoln gives in enough to let Grant undress him. They pull off Grant's clothes too and it always makes Grant's breath catch when he sees Lincoln's eyes growing dark with desire. Grant doesn't think much of himself and his body full of scars; he doesn't think he's something good too look at, something important to be touched and explored like he's _precious_. Still Lincoln does it, he does it every time, makes sure to kiss every scar, every spot that hurts, until Grant can't handle it. But this time it can't be like that. Grant won't let it be about him, pushing Lincoln down and kissing Lincoln until all he can do is gasp.

 

Grant goes down on him, kissing his neck and chest along the way, until he reaches his thighs. Of all the creative ways they've found to make love, this is what Lincoln loves the best. It's straightforward, intense, as one hand grabs Grant's hair and the other clenches in the sheet and Lincoln whimpers quietly. There's no time or purpose for a foreplay this time. Lincoln needs him now, right now. Grant helps him chase his release, which comes quickly and suddenly. All of his muscles go rigid as he comes into Grant's mouth.

 

Grant waits until Lincoln's breathing calms again, making much slower path up along his body. He might ignore his own need, but Lincoln doesn't. Grant lets him wrap his hand around him as they kiss, and it's Grant's turn to whimper and plead and silence his own release against Lincoln's mouth.

 

They wrap around each other after, calm and content for a short while.

 

“It gets easier,” Grant says. Lincoln sighs and nods, his face tucked against Grant's shoulder. “It will get easier because you'll focus on making her life better. Helping her make her own life better. You _know_ how to do that.”

 

“It was different. Back then,” Lincoln says. Grant nods and strokes his hair.

 

“It's always different,” he answers as Lincoln's arms hold him a bit tighter. “But you won't be alone. I'll be here. I love you. I love both of you,” Grant says, closing his eyes against Lincoln's warmth.

 

“I know. I know.”

 

 

 

 


	11. Closeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the storm comes the calm - which all three deserve so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally managed to finish another chapter! I hope there's still someone who wants to read this - in any case this chapter is light and fun and we're moving towards the good stuff now. :D Also, this may be the slowest slow burn I have ever written. I am so very proud of myself for that. Whoever enjoys Lincoln and Daisy (Skye), this chapter is right up your alley.

*

 

Lincoln is chopping wood.

 

It's the second cup of coffee that Daisy pours herself this morning. She tells herself the weather is particularly nice and sunny, without the usual undertone of grey thats eems to constantly hang in the air. Her sitting next to the kitchen window has nothing to do with the fact that Lincoln is chopping wood outside.

 

None whatsoever.

 

She indulges her curiosity and watches him. He's taken off the jacket and she can see his movement pretty well. He's precise and efficient and there is no energy going to waste. It reminds her of someone.

 

It reminds her of Grant.

 

She shifts, not sure what to do with her realization, but there is nothing to distract her from the man in front of her. Without a getaway, she has to face unpleasant thought.

 

Lincoln was always hard working, she thinks. (Just like Grant). And he never took particular credit for things he did (just like Grant). The only difference here is that she was used to see him in a lab – he never felt at home in the field, no matter how hard he tried.

 

In all the time they spent together she hasn't seen him do physical work quite like this. She lets herself think about it more, trying to pinpoint the exact change that's bothering her. For some reason the physical work doesn't bother her with Grant. He was always the one who did the grunt work with the team. The hard stuff. Chopping wood and hauling things and having his skin cut and rough from fishing equipment feels only like an extension of what she remembers. His life was always rough. She always knew that. She _felt_ that.

 

And yet, he seemed so gentle.

 

That was what called to her in the first place.

 

Lincoln... _is_ gentle. Was _always_ gentle.

 

She has to turn away from the window as it finally occurs to her that they're so much alike. That they're not that different. And it's not about any remote possibility that some day Lincoln might do things Grant did.

 

It's the other way around.

 

The fact that Grant was good, and that no matter what he did... there was always good in him.

 

She tries to calm her breathing as her heart beats, hard and fast, and she's not sure why.

 

For a moment she wants to abandon her spot by the window, hide somewhere where she can observe her thoughts and tell them to be quiet. The shout from the outside interferes with her plan.

 

“Hey -HEY! That's _not fair_ – Grant!”

 

The uncharacteristic shouting is followed by laughter. Her curiosity easily wins over her desire to retreat and hide. Outside she can see Lincoln hastily looking for a cover. He tries to duck behind the porch fence but a snowball still catches his shoulder.

 

“ _Bastard!”_

 

“Oh come ON, Campbell,” she hears from the general direction of the trees. It's _Grant_. _Shouting_. And _throwing snowballs_.

 

“Totally uncalled for!” Lincoln is saying and grabbing snow. His bare hands look red, bitten by the cold, but he seems to ignore it as he makes a snowball and throws.

 

“Yeah uncalled for – your aim sucks!”

 

“Your _entire style_ sucks, Ward,” Lincoln replies, this time avoiding another snowball. “I was making sure we have enough wood to keep us warm! Your ass included!”

 

“Excuses,” another snowball hits Lincoln, and Lincoln throws another on his own and Daisy hears a yelp.

 

“So much for my sucky aim!”

 

“Oh, you're gonna have to try harder than that!”

 

“Show your face then and take it like a man!” Lincoln shouts.

 

Daisy watches as Grant shows up on the clearing. He's laughing, and Lincoln is too, and they engage in a completely childish battle of _throwing snow_ at one another. It's hard to tell who's winning, except both of them are, because she doesn't remember when was the last time she saw Grant doubling over from laughter or Lincoln looking so content. And before she can talk herself out of it, she's standing on the porch, zipping up her jacket and testing how her boot fits.

 

It's Lincoln who notices her first and his smile turns wicked in a split second. Before she's even aware what she got herself into, he's grabbing a handful of snow.

 

“Hey, Grant, look who's here,” he says.

 

“Oh hey, no no no no nooo,” she's saying but for some reason her feet are not retreating. In fact, she's walking towards them and now Grant too is scooping up snow in his hands. “I will not be part of your – your -”

 

Grant and Lincoln share a look, complete with raised eyebrows and conspiratory smiles and something about that makes her so happy, she completely ignores the prospect of having snowballs thrown at her.

 

“We don't care,” Grant says.

 

“Yeah,” Lincoln adds, and before she knows, she's been hit, and she's yelping and grabbing snow herself. “Get her!”

 

It hits her smack in the face and it's cold and she _can't believe_ that he actually did that.

 

She also can't believe how powerless she is against laughter that takes over her.

 

In a moment she's looking for cover and trying to retaliate. Their joint attack turns into one against the other against the third war, after which Grant teams up with her, only for her to push him into snow.

 

“Seriously, Daisy?” he's saying and Lincoln is laughing so hard, she cannot not laugh along.

 

Half an hour later all three of them are cold and wet and need to get inside, get warm and put on something dry. She comes downstairs, realizing she has stolen someone's sweater again, Lincoln is making tea and Grant is sitting in a chair, still trying to stop laughing.

 

“That was fun,” she tells him.

 

“Yeah, I see how making me faceplant into snow was fun,” he says.

 

Lincoln brings the tea. They claim opposite ends of the couch. She observes two of them, trying to remember what was it that made her so uneasy about her realization not an hour ago, but the thought is eluding her. Well, if she can't remember then it's probably not that important. She sinks back into pillows behind her back (seriously, there are so many pillows here, and she suspects thos pillows multiply with each and every trip to the town either of the guys takes, but she's not going to complain). The tea slowly cools down to the point where it can be enjoyed without scalding her tongue. Lincoln decides his tea isn't sweet enough – something she actually remembers him doing at the base as well – and upon his return he brings one of those blankets that used to sit on the chair while it was on the porch. (with the snow and perpetual cold setting in, they pulled it back inside. She misses it. Sitting by the window is her next best thing.) Lincoln covers her feet, just the way she likes. She bites her lip. Grant is grinning at them.

 

Daisy feels her ears burning up. She's not exactly sure why.

 

She's suddenly in need of finding a topic for a conversation. Anything, just to hide the fact that her throat is suddenly very tight.

 

“What's up with the beard?” she asks Lincoln, because that's the first thing that comes to mind – but she also wants to know.

 

“You don't like it?” he asks lightly.

 

“I... it's not that,” he says and Lincoln laughs. “No really. Let me finish. How does a nice and neat little doctor from Cincinnati become … a mountain man, chopping wood and growing that.... _bush_ on his face?”

 

Lincoln continues laughing and the fact that Grant is too isn't helping. She tells herself to relax, tells herself not to be ridiculous. It's just them.

 

“I stopped shaving one day,” Lincoln says. “And then figured a bush like this is pretty good at keeping my face warm.”

 

“Right,” she says.

 

“She doesn't trust me,” Lincoln looks at Grant.

 

“You didn't sound very convincing, to be quite honest,” Grant says.

 

“Geez. I thought you were on my side,” Lincoln says and they laugh again.

 

*

 

Couple of hours later she passes the bathroom door – it's open and that's the only reason why she gets to see what's going on inside.

 

Lincoln is standing next to sink, working the shaving cream over the lower half of his face.

 

“Lincoln?” she says and he turns around. He smiles, and he looks ridiculous with half of his face covered in foam. “What are you doing?”

 

“Shaving,” he says simply, like it's not a big deal. She instantly feels bad, because growing a beard like that must have taken months, but not only that. His beard definitely isn't a bush – he was taking care of it. But before she can say anything, he takes the razor and moves it smoothly along his neck and under his jaw, leaving clear skin in its wake.

 

“No – no, please don't do it because of my stupid remarks,” she says. He looks at her, actually looks at her reflection in the mirror and keeps on going.

 

“It's okay,” he says and shrugs. “Besides, my skin is going to appreciate it.”

 

She doesn't feel convinced at all.

 

“I mean it,” he says. She rises an eyebrow at him. “I really do,” he says.

 

She keeps watching him as he shaves the hair off his neck, and she knows he's doing it because of her. No. He's doing it _for_ her.

 

And that makes her feel _stupidly happy._

 

She must have smiled because he's smiling back at her in the mirror.

 

She bites her lip.

 

“Let me help?” she says before she can think better of it.

 

He smiles wider.

 

He turns around but then he realizes he's going to need a chair to sit down and for a moment she's standing there, holding his soapy razor and staring at the sink and the water flowing. Lincoln comes back, bringing a chair from her room and she moves away so he could place it near the sink. He sits down. She has to steady her breath and steady her arm. She's never done this to a man before.

 

“Um,” she says.

 

“It's fine,” he assures, looking up at her. Even sitting down he's so tall, and she's forgotten how it feels to be this close to him. He parts his legs so she can stand closer. Her hand on his shoulder feels familiar, feels like it was yesterday, and she's so scared to reconnect with that feeling. “Daisy?”

 

“If I cut you, it's your fault,” she says quickly. “You agreed.”

 

“I'm pretty sure I'll live,” he says.

 

She swallows. She's clumsy at first and it's taking longer than she expects, but then she starts to relax. He's looking at her and he's looking at him and her body remembers times like this more than her mind seems to, or maybe, more than she's letting herself to. By the time she's done, she's standing completely inside his space, and she realizes she got lost in his eyes when he hands her the towel. It feels a bit like waking up. And it feels like a nice dream, where she was safe and warm.

 

“So?” he asks and grins at her confusion.

 

“Oh,” she says. “I can see _all_ of your face again,” she tells him, patting away the remaining foam. When she's done she lets herself look at him, really observe him realizing this is a sight she didn't get to see, just like she never saw him with as much bead as he had.

 

“What?” he asks, smiling.

 

“You look so young,” she says. “Like, oh my god, I had no idea you look like a _baby_ ,” she says, deliberately overdoing her statement, to which he laughs. He stands up and gives himself a look in the mirror.

 

“Damn. You're _right,_ ” he says. The smile they share through the mirror warms her up inside, head to toe.

 

*

 

When they finally emerge from the bathroom and come down the stairs, Grant definitely senses an air of conspiracy around the two of them. Everything is pretty clear when he looks at Lincoln.

 

“Oh wow,” he says. “That's different,” he says and smiles, because he's noticed the way Daisy is looking at him, anticipating his reaction. He's aware why Lincoln has done this. The beard used to symbolize the end of something, and the beginning of something else, for both of them, and Grant knows that Lincoln didn't choose to do this carelessly. It's the other way around. “I've never actually seen your face,” Grant says, in a lightly teasing way and realizes it makes Daisy smile.

 

“Told you,” Lincoln says, fondly looking at her. She smiles back and seems to hold her breath, almost as if she's making a wish. Then she walks over to Grant and takes the dinner plates from him.

 

He realizes she's standing closer to him – almost as if the day behind them erased something between them all and helped her shoulders relax.

 

“Makeovers are a thing,” Daisy says, setting the table for three of them. Grant looks at Lincoln and tells himself he will have to wait until they're alone to see how it feels kissing him now when his beard is gone. He did love the beard, but he loves Lincoln and he loves Daisy and he's happy because the heaviness of yesterday has been lifted. Because they all allowed it. And that matters.

 

He rings the food to the table – he's made pasta, and since Daisy seems to be a fan of carbonara sauce, he went with that. He's glad to see her eat properly, that she's looking healthier and stronger now.

 

And he's glad for every little smile that passes her lips when she looks at Lincoln or at him. So he smiles back. And he smiles back a lot, and that, that is more than he had been hoping for.

 


	12. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy and Grant discuss the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partly inspired by my entire family getting sick last week. When everyone got better I got sick. I'm good now, tho. Other part of my inspiration comes from the latest Framework episode (seriously, how awesome was it?) 
> 
> Anyway, I am sorry for being crappy and not replying to the comments. I read them, i rejoice at each and every one, and most often I don't have the time to sit at my computer and properly reply. Thank you for still leaving feedback, (i promise i will reply as soon as i can). It means the world to me.

This is not how Daisy planned to spend her day.

 

She watched Ward load the pickup with firewood after they had breakfast. He waved and told her and Lincoln not to slip and fall today and Lincoln laughed, saying they'd be fine.

 

Lincoln planned to take Daisy to that same spectacular view where Grant took her not too long ago. They'd pack some food and go hiking. The day was supposed to be relatively warm. They had an entire week without fresh snow, and the day was a perfect opportunity to get out of the house.

 

Except.

 

It all started so unexpectedly. She was just finished putting everything into a backpack, with her camera on top, when Lincoln practically ran to the bathroom.

 

And he's in there now too, throwing up, or at least trying to. She suspects that, after throwing up four times already, he has nothing left in his stomach. He's coughing and shaking and all she can do is watch him and put a wet, cool cloth against his face when he slumps against the wall behind him.

 

“This doesn't look like you'll get better any time soon,” she says. Few hours ago he was trying to convince her that he should just get this out of his system, whatever this is. He just sighs now. “I'll call Grant,” she says, and he shakes his head.

 

“Nah. He has things to do. I'll... be better. Eventually.”

 

“I'll be better, eventually? Such a doctor you are right now,” she says. He gives her a weak smile.

 

“So melodramatic,” he replies.

 

She raises an eyebrow at him, slightly relieved that he's still capable of humor. “You're puking up my bathroom.” He tries to laugh but ends up coughing.

 

It's technically Grant's bathroom. It doesn't really matter.

 

“I'm gonna call Ward,” she says.

 

“No,” he says stubbornly.

 

“You're worse than a mule,” she says. He smiles.

 

“I know. Ward says that too.”

 

He washes his face and drags himself to bed. Daisy tucks him in, takes his temperature and sighs when he refuses to take ibuprofen saying it's not high enough to require medication. She leaves him to sleep it off, feeling distressed and wanting to just take him someplace, so someone could actually take a look at him. And it's not as if she didn't have similar issues over at the base and let her body fight off whatever was causing something like this. She did. But she is so discontent and worried and over the next two hours she makes enough trips towards Lincoln's bedroom to admit to herself she's very worried.

 

*

 

It gets worse.

 

She's in the living room, trying to distract herself by playing tetris of all things, when she hears a heavy, blunt sound. She knows what's happened, thinks she knows, and she's dialing Grant's number before she's even there.

 

“Skye?” he asks when he picks up. She doesn't care that he's mixed up her names again. It happens to him from time to time, and she has stopped correcting him. She knows he's trying and doing his best.

 

“Grant,” his name comes easily. She feels relief and pauses in her steps. “Can you please come home? Lincoln is... not well,” she says realizing she started shaking.

 

“What's wrong?” he asks, his voice getting quieter and tense.

 

“He's been throwing up all day,” she says. There's just a beat of silence.

 

“I'll be right there,” he says.

 

Daisy hangs up and something in her seems to break. By the time she reaches Lincoln's room, tears have blurred the world around her. She finds Lincoln on the floor, next to his bed. It's a struggle to get him up because he's so weak, sweaty and shivery, and his skin feels like it's burning up.

 

“Did you call him?” Lincoln asks, when she helps him settle down. Only then she realizes he was trying to reach the bathroom, but threw up on the floor. Not that she cares about the mess – all that matters is that he's not doing well _at all_. “I'm... so sorry for that.”

 

“Don't be ridiculous,” she says.

 

The trip to the bathroom is short. She returns with a washcloth to cool off hos face. He sighs.

 

“Grant?”

 

“He's on his way,” she says.

 

Lincoln just sighs.

 

*

 

It's not what she expects at all.

 

Ward comes home looking worried. Daisy is ready to help him get Lincoln to a doctor, wherever the closest doctor might be, but that's not what happens.

 

Grant leaves his jacket and his boots. There's something peculiar about the way he's moving, something purposeful. He's on edge, and she picks it up without fail: it's the same tension she could sense in him when he was trying to hide she was Hydra and she was trying to hide she knew. She follows him into the bathroom after he leaves the door wide open – a complete invitation.

 

He's washing his hands and hesitating to speak.

 

“Grant?” she asks, realizing she's more worried and suspicious.

 

“I need to tell you something,” he says, glancing at her over his shoulder.

 

She feels her heart start to beat faster, in a not good sort of way. He seems to feel her tension.

 

“I'm really sorry I didn't tell you about this before,” he says.

 

“Tell me what?” she asks. Ward and secrets were never a good match.

 

“I can heal,” he says. It sounds so simply, and yet she doesn't understand what he means.

 

“What? What do you mean, you can heal?”

 

He looks down, looks at his right hand, flexes it, Daisy feels some strange kind of chills.

 

“Look... there was just no... right moment to tell you about this. I'm... sorry. When – when we woke up here... after that spaceship – I felt disoriented and didn't really know who I was or where I was. Lincoln was on the ground next to me and he was the only thing that felt familiar,” Grant says and makes a pause. Daisy sucks in a sharp breath, not sure why these words seem to hurt so much. But he continues, and so does she. She continues listening to him. “I... somehow knew he was hurt. And that I had to do something. And it was like acting on autopilot. Like I knew I could just...,” he lifts his right hand. Daisy stares at it.

 

“What did you do?”

 

“It... requires me to touch the side of other person's face. And to … focus, I guess. It just... happens,” Grant says.

 

“What happens?”

 

“I feel where they're hurt,” he says. She's looking at him and her brain is refusing to process this. She knows _what_ this means but she's not sure if she's ready to accept it. “It's... I didn't ask for this,” he tells her and when she doesn't say anything he looks down and passes her by so he can go to Lincoln's room.

 

She follows him and it's... it's as if it somehow it doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter right now. Grant sits on the edge of Lincoln's bed and looks at him, long and careful. Then he gently wakes Lincoln up.

 

“Hey,” he says.

 

“Hey,” Lincoln manages.

 

“You look like shit,” Grant says then. Lincoln closes his eyes and smiles.

 

“Very... funny,” he manages.

 

“Ready?” Grant asks and Lincoln nods.

 

Daisy watches them feeling somehow unreal. She observes the sheer familiarity of this, the way Grant seems to know exactly how to help Lincoln sit up, how to do it to avoid any unnecessary discomfort. She observes how Lincoln relaxes, how trusting he seems.

 

As Grant places his right hand on Lincoln's left cheek, Daisy wonders how many time this had already happened.

 

And then... something happens. It's like with all other Inhuman powers manifesting, it's like some change in the air around them. For a few moments they both keep their eyes closed, after which Grant slowly opens his.

 

“There,” he says. Lincoln slumps back against the pillows.

 

“Damn it,” Lincoln says, promptly trying to sit up again. “Damn my immunity.”

 

“What?” Daisy asks looking at one then at the other. “What did you just do?”

 

“I... helped,” Grant says, but it's Lincoln who explains.

 

“Whatever Hive did to his body... he changed Grant. It resulted in Grant's ability to physically connect to someone and treat illness and injury,” he says.

 

Daisy stares.

 

“Are you saying.... are you saying Hive turned him into... an Inhuman?”

 

Lincoln leans back again.

 

“Yes. I think he did.”

 

*

 

She's alone in the kitchen trying to find something to do with herself when Grant comes in. She tenses and reminds herself that this is Ward she spent three months with. He's not going to hurt her. Still she can't help the memories that are struggling free from her hold.

 

He looks at her, presses his lips together and looks away. She knows that gesture so well. She remembers how Hive never had a single one of them.

 

“I can't do anything else,” Grant says. “This is the only thing I can do.”

 

Of course, they both know why he's saying precisely that. Daisy nods, noting how he's trying to look anywhere but at her.

 

“Lincoln?” he asks, as he starts to open the cupboards and busy himself somehow.

 

“He's asleep. He seems a lot better, though,” she says, carefully studying him.

 

She knows Ward. She might have told herself that he's a manipulator, that he lied and ton of other things, incredibly cruel things which she knows are not true. She knows he's shrinking onto himself right now and trying to find some way to justify all of this to her. And despite being shocked – because she is shocked – she just doesn't want any more ripples between them. Not again. So she pulls a chair and sits at the dining table. “I could really use some coffee,” she says.

 

The look he gives her is tentative and grateful. She bites her lip and looks away thinking how little it takes. How absolutely little he needs, how small a gesture to accept it.

 

How different it all could have been.

 

She lets him make the coffee in silence. He brings two steaming cups ant puts them on the table, taking a seat across from her.

 

“I remember... a lot of things,” he says unprompted. “It was.... like watching it all with... my hands tied.”

 

Daisy nods, her hands around the coffee cup and her eyes set on the drink in front of her. She doesn't really need to hear much more.

 

“I'm... sorry,” he says.

 

She looks up at him.

 

“Grant, that... wasn't your fault,” she says. Her mind still has hard time accepting that it was _Coulson's_ fault. Hive swaying her was Coulson's fault.

 

“Well, he used my hands,” Grant says and she shakes her head. She looks up and meets his eyes. She looks at him, knowing how incredibly important this is.

 

“I can't even imagine... how violated you must have felt,” she says. Something in his expression changes at her words. When you call something by its name you confirm its existence, you make it real. It occurs to her that maybe he still wasn't ready to hear that word yet.

 

Grant Ward doesn't want to feel helpless. She knows that. If anything in this world is the truth, that is the truth.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I should watch my mouth.”

 

He shakes his head. The expression on his face is fond, but tired. He suddenly looks older. “It's fine. And besides, you were never the one for subtlety.”

 

“Hey,” she protests, realizing that he made a joke. Actual, _nice_ , warm joke about this terrible situation. He looks away and then looks at her again.

 

“I can't change it,” he says. There's calm about his expression she has never seen on him before. Acceptance. “But... if some part of him had to remain with me, this is the best thing I could possibly imagine,” he says. “I can _help_ people.” His eyes light up. Daisy's throat feels tight, too small for the emotion rising from her chest. “It doesn't require pulling the trigger or hurting them otherwise. Instead I take the pain away.”

 

“That's... you always wanted that, didn't you?” she asks quietly. He looks down at his hands, and stays quiet for a long time.

 

“I didn't know _how_ to want it,” he says. “It has always been...” he shrugs, looking down again. She remembers him in SHIELD's basement prison, the way his face seemed soft and different there. The way she didn't want to think about what that meant.

 

“I know you told me the truth,” she suddenly says, staring at her hands splayed on the surface of the table. “Back when you were... when you were -”

 

She can't even say it. She remembers the things she told him, the things she did to him. She can't look up at him.

 

He stands up and walks around the table, pulls up the chair next to hers. She lifts her head and looks ahead, but not at him. She can't.

 

“I know what you mean,” he says quietly and slowly, gently covers her hand with his. She sucks in a breath and feels his fingers carefully wrap around hers. Her throat is so tight and her eyes are burning and she holds him back almost desperately.

 

“It's no use, Skye,” he says softly. She looks at him from underneath her lashes as her vision blurs. He's smiling gently, and he looks like forgiveness for the sins she can't even name. Such a pathetic confession this turns out to be. She places hand over her mouth to stop the sobs. If she just listened to him back then, if she just let herself _see him_.

 

“I was... so blind,” she manages, holding onto his hand.

 

“I don't blame you,” he says. “I hurt you. I know that you couldn't trust me. I betrayed everything I tried to teach you, everything … you thought I stood for. Everything started with _me_ ,” he says. “I'm sorry. I am so sorry,” he says.

 

“I... know,” she tells him. He nods. She holds his gaze. She can finally look at him and tell him this. “I know you didn't want to hurt me.”

 

“But I did,” he says.

 

She shakes her head. It's all just so complicated and so... pointless. It feels so in wain right now. All that pain they've both been through feels like something that didn't have to happen. Like there was so many missed opportunities to put a stop to everything. “I shouldn't have let everyone else fill me with... so much anger and hate,” she says, wiping her eyes. When she looks at him his eyes are filled with sorrow and compassion – _for her_. For her suffering. “That... that's my responsibility, Grant. _I did that_. I let that be done to me,” she's saying and he's shaking his head.

 

“Do you believe that I couldn't say no to Jo – to Garret?” he says and she catches the way he corrects himself. She nods. They're still holding hands. “It's the same thing, Skye,” he says. “You couldn't have done any thing different. You just _couldn't_.”

 

“But I wish I did,” she sniffs.

 

“So do I,” he tells her.

 

 


	13. On giving up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant and Lincoln talk about the things they probably should share with Daisy. And they remember.

*

 

 

 

Grant knows Lincoln is awake even before he speaks. He sets his book aside and looks up – there's something about sitting on the floor, on folded blankets, leaning against the bed. He wants to be close to Lincoln, wants to hear his breathing, but knowing Daisy could walk in any moment, he thinks sleeping next to Lincoln probably isn't a good idea.

 

Daisy had enough discoveries for one day.

 

“Why are you on the floor?” Lincoln asks. Grant takes a deep breath and stretches. “What, you can't do one night without me?”

 

If there's a smile on Lincoln's lips (and there _is_ , Grant knows), Grant pretends he's not aware of it. Lincoln lets his arm fall off the mattress so it brushes Grant's shoulder.

 

“I'm afraid you're too handsome and completely irreplaceable,” Grant says.

 

“Pure flattery. It will get you nowhere, Ward,” Lincoln snorts. He shifts, probably to lay on his side, so he can actually put his hand on Grant's shoulder. “Thank you,” he says in a bit more quiet voice. Grant nods.

 

“Don't mention it.”

 

“You thought I'd want to talk about what I remembered,” Lincoln says and he's not wrong.

 

“Do you?” Grant asks. They've gotten used to memories emerging long time ago. Grant can usually tell his own memories apart from memories left from Hive. Sometimes he asks for assurance and Lincoln tells him how it all felt for him, but the thing is, they haven't done this in awhile. Actually, it's nearly been a year. They didn't discuss the memories they created in the meantime.

 

Lincoln is silent. Grant isn't surprised.

 

“Do you think we should tell her how we looked for her?” Lincoln asks.

 

“Yes,” Grant says. “But not just yet. She had a had day as it is,” he says. Lincoln's flingers are tracing patterns on his shoulder, a positive sign that he's pensive.

 

“I gave up,” he says then and that makes Grant turn around.

 

“Wait. Why are you saying that?”

 

There aren't many instances when Lincoln is hard to read. His expression now is closed off as he's facing the memory that emerged within the healing link.

 

“What if we... what if we kept looking for one week longer? What if we could find her? All of this.... -”

 

He trails off and Grant gives him a serious look. “It probably wouldn't help her much. But it could have brought SHIELD to her. Again.”

 

Lincoln closes his eyes and nods. “You're saying we did everything.”

 

“That's what I'm saying,” Grant tells him calmly. He needs the assurance, and assurance is what Grant gives him. “We tried for months, we followed all the leads, I'm pretty sure we figured out her plan too. But she's not the best at what she does for nothing.”

 

Lincoln is looking at him. “I'm just... I wish we could stop what they've done. Her losing her powers,” he says. Grant nods, gently taking Lincoln's hand.

 

“I wish I had the chance to see her using them,” he says. Lincoln smiles, his face a mixture of pride and sorrow.

 

“She was amazing,” he says.

 

“She always was amazing,” Grant agrees, kissing his knuckles several times.

 

“Missing me?” Lincoln asks.

 

“That other memory,” Grant grins, “it was nice remembering that. Aside from the Fitz shooting me part.”

 

Lincoln looks at him in that particular way that's a clear signal of desire – except he is still exhausted and needs his rest.

 

“I miss you,” he says, and Grant knows what he means. Before Daisy's arrival they had the house for themselves and a complete freedom to touch whenever they wanted to.

 

“I know,” Grant replies. He kisses the back of Lincoln's hand. “We should tell her.”

 

“We should,” Lincoln agrees, as he intertwines his fingers with Grant's. “Lots of things we still should tell her.”

 

He's right. Grant knows, just like he knows there's nothing daisy hates more than lies. And even though they haven't specifically lied to her, he imagines two of them being together isn't something she's expecting, or something she even suspects; and two of them are certainly trying to keep her convinced there's nothing to suspect. And if Grant is really honest with himself, he's a bit scared of her reaction.

 

Also, there are those little moments, when she catches her looking, either at him or at Lincoln, and that far away expression on her face and soft eyes.... and no, he really shouldn't think about that. So instead of thinking he decides to humor Lincoln at least a little bit – having sex right now is inadvisable, because Lincoln needs to properly heal, but they still can kiss.

 

With the memory of how they started this fresh on his mind, Grant leans forward and kisses him on the mouth, and Lincoln is happy to respond.

 

*

 

_(the past)_

 

He spits out the dust and feels the sting of the bullet that hit him. Grant feels that he shouldn't be shocked with the fact that Fitz can fire a gun, let alone that he wants to. It seems that everyone in this world wants to kill him or harm him as much as possible.

 

Except one person, it seems. The next thing he's aware of is Fitz being thrown away by electricity – enough to hurt, but not enough to cause serious damage. Lincoln, though, looks like he's ready to fry everyone who steps any closer as Grant tries to crawl behind him. At this point the tall, thin man feels like a wall Grant can lean on. He wonders _how_ Fitz and Coulson found them, and he's thankful this happened now and not after they've reached the cabin. Allowing Coulson to know where their hideout is is not an option, no matter the fact that Coulson is obviously a rogue agent now.

 

“What the hell?” Fitz asks indignantly as Lincoln stares him down.

 

“Next time you try to touch him, I'll kill you,” Lincoln says.

 

“Lincoln,” Coulson says in his best commanding officer voice. “Be reasonable. Come -”

 

“No,” Lincoln says. “You put a kill switch on me and I didn't have any choice in it.”

 

“This man has killed -” Coulson begins, but Lincoln doesn't let him finish.

 

“And you _didn't_? I don't want to listen to you,” he says and with that he bends to help Grant get up. “Don't follow us,” Lincoln warns.

 

*

 

They don't, even though Grant expects them to try. The sight of Fitz's face keeps haunting him. Like he couldn't believe that Lincoln chose something, _someone_ who _isn't_ SHIELD.

 

They stumble through the apartment door and Lincoln makes Grant sit on the bed and wait. It's a sparsely furnished safehouse. It's not pretty or inviting, but it's practical and it's _his_. Lincoln returns with the first aid kit and switches to the doctor mode as he focuses on the task. They can't take off Grant's jacket without risking to make the wound worse, so Lincoln cuts through the thin material, and after, cuts away the sleeve of Grant's shirt. The wound looks worse than it is, and it takes awhile until all the blood is cleaned and the tear is neatly stitched. All of it Grant watches as if through a daze. Lincoln is careful, he is gentle (he is _always_ gentle), and only after he is done he lets his temper show. The used material ends up thrown into the bin after which Lincoln sighs.

 

“You shouldn't have done it,” Grant says, looking at Lincoln's furious pacing. He had just crossed off all his opportunities at going back.

 

“Oh, I should have,” he says.

 

“You'd be safer -”

 

“You're joking, right?” Lincoln gives him incredulous look, one that pins Grant down to the bed where he remains seated while Lincoln continues fuming. “That was Phil Coulson there. Do you think he would put anyone's life before his own interest and his idea of greater good?”

 

It's a question that doesn't require an answer. The feeling of Lincoln zipping up the kill vest flashes through Grant's mind and for a moment it feels as if its resting on his own chest. “You were right, Grant. They're after her,” Lincoln says in somewhat quieter tone.

 

“I think we can agree on that,” Grant says. The words weren't spoken aloud but Grant knows enough about SHIELD, enough about Coulson and his idea that he is the only person who has the exclusive right to protect Skye ( _Daisy_ ), enough to make an educated guess that Coulson wants to find her.

 

Question is why.

 

Whatever the reason, Grant doesn't intend helping him. He is willing to distract SHIELD as much as he can and throw them off.

 

“If she went away, she must have had a reason. A damn good reason,” Lincoln says, and with this Grant agrees as well. “And she doesn't want to be found.”

 

“Still, you would have had one enemy less,” Grant continues, even though part of him knows its futile and not true. The other part of him wants to believe that Lincoln would be somewhere safe. Safer than Grant can provide.

 

Lincoln _has_ learned how to read him, though. He knows when to call bullshit, and he is probably about to do just that when he sits on the bed next to Grant, turns sideways to face him as Grant gingerly pulls on a new shirt.

 

Lincoln helps.

 

Grant won't look up. There's one more part of his heart, one that _doesn't want_ Lincoln to leave.

 

“You don't think that,” Lincoln's voice is low, and quiet, and it sounds almost sad. Part of him knows he's being unfair, after the chaos of last three months. “You don't _believe_ that.”

 

Grant meets his gaze. It's true, he doesn't believe it. He knows that Coulson is ready to sacrifice everyone, or _nearly_ everyone, except maybe two people, and Lincoln is definitely not among those two. Others are led to believe that they're doing the Right Thing, and for all the naturally calm, conflict avoiding nature that Lincoln has, his tolerance for double standards is very low.

 

Another thing Grant likes.

 

“I'm not going to walk away with someone who wants to kill you. Again,” Lincoln says and there's tension in his words.

 

“I'm afraid that... if you go with me,” Grant pauses and briefly looks away, but Lincoln's gaze pulls him back like a magnet. “I will only get _you_ killed.”

 

“Grant -”

 

“Happened before,” Grant says, exhaling heavily.

 

Lincoln shakes his head, shifts so he's closer now, so close that Grant can see different shades of his eyes.

 

“I'm not going to let that happen,” Lincoln says with foolish conviction that reminds Grant of someone else and some other time. Then Lincoln takes his hand, slowly, carefully, almost like he's replaying that moment, and maybe he is. They've seen all of each other anyway. “Nobody is taking me. I'm staying,” he says.

 

Grant breathes. That's all he dares to do right now.

 

“But... why? I'm not a good man,” he says, feeling somehow stripped bare to his very bones.

 

“I know what kind of man you are,” Lincoln replies, placing a hand on Grant's cheek, the same way Grant does when he needs to connect.

 

And a heartbeat later Lincoln leans forward. The kiss he gives Grant is soft, undemanding gentle touch of affection, and it lasts. Before it can stop Lincoln moves his lips, presses closer, invites Grant into this. Grant lets his lips part and only then he registers the shock, the electric feeling of warm mouth and wet tongue against his, and a hand on the side of his face.

 

Moment later they're holding each other close, not enough time to draw in air because parting feels like a terrible idea. Grant _needs_ this, oh god he needs this _so much_ , he needs this more than he could have imagined. Lincoln's beard is short and soft, his hands are warm, his body is solid and familiar and feels like safety Grant wants to drown in. They pull each other closer and tumble onto the bed and Grant ends up on top. Lincoln strokes his arms, slides his palms down Grant's sides, fingers sliding under the hem of Grant's shirt. The way Lincoln touches him makes his breath short, makes his hips roll against Lincoln's, who groans into Grant's mouth. He is hard, and Lincoln is too, and they're kissing and and pushing against each other on the bed in this empty room and this is going in inevitable direction – and that's when Grant pulls away with a gasp.

 

“What's wrong?” Lincoln asks, his breathing heavy and his voice so different with unmistakable lust in it. It makes Grant's blood feel warm again, properly _human_ , unlike anything else has failed to do. “What's wrong, Grant?” Lincoln repeats, his fingers so gentle against the side of Grant's face.

 

“It's... I can't... shouldn't...,” Grant tries, his arms shaking with the effort, struggling to articulate the conflict tightening his chest. Staring into Lincoln's eyes makes it suddenly clear – he is the last thread with humanity that Grant has. It's not like with Kara – he might have been a lost man, but he still was a _man_. He doesn't know what he is now, and sometimes he doesn't know which memories are his, and he struggles with the burden of Hive, depending on Lincoln to help him tell real from not real. And the way Lincoln looks at him now, like he is _someone_ – someone you could _want_ – Grant doesn't dare finding out if this is something real, because he doesn't know what he would do if it isn't. “I should stop now, because it could be the connection, and if I don't I … I don't think I could control -”

 

Lincoln looks at him, steady, certain and takes his right hand. He places the palm against his cheek, just the way Grant does.

 

“Then see for yourself,” he says simply. “Because I am certain.”

 

He shouldn't. He shouldn't, but he needs to see and feel and know so he pours himself into the connection and finds Lincoln open and welcoming. He finds conviction and compassion built on knowledge, he finds friendship and he finds need – not to connect on molecular level, but _human_ one. Desire and understanding and being together, and the way Grant looks as seen through Lincoln's eyes.

 

Someone steady and solid and reliable. Someone worthy. Someone seen and heard and counted upon.

 

Someone _wanted._

 

There's an almost memory that flashes through Grant's mind. It's _her._

 

Grant opens his eyes. Lincoln smiles warmly and brings Grant's forehead against his, and Grant's eyes close again as he lets himself flow into the emotion they're now sharing. They're two men who have both loved Skye and lost her and let her go and kept on loving her. In entirety of Grant's darkness she was a flicker of light, and this man she had loved, he _must_ be light too. In an inexplicable gesture Lincoln shares his memory of her, a moment in which their foreheads touch. It feels strange, only it doesn't, it feels like his and Lincoln's souls too can touch, like the pain of leaving her, letting go of her is something that can make them allies. Like it doesn't set them apart but joins them together.

 

But there is no Skye or Daisy in this place – here, in the reality of dimly lit room and plain white sheets Lincoln sits up. He's close, but not too close, and this feels like a position that gives Grant a choice. He can leave, if he wants to. It dawns on him that most of his choices weren't choices at all.

“Someone once told me,” Lincoln begins and for a moment he looks sentimental and far away, “that sometimes it's good to lose control.”

 

He covers Grant's hand with his.

 

“It's okay. I'm here and I've got you.”

 

Grant's heart is beating so fast. He wants this _so much_ , and he wants this so _badly_ , and his hands shake as he reaches out to touch Lincoln's face. Lincoln leans into his palm, turns so he can kiss it, once, twice, three times.

 

“I've got you,” Lincoln says as he moves closer, his cheek against Grant's. They turn to one another, faces and lips gravitating to meet; and they kiss softly as Lincoln undresses both of them.

 

It's strange and different. He's never been with another man – he was sent to seduce a few, for a short while, he had kissed a male target once but it was nothing memorable, just another unpleasant thing a spy had to do. He's not sure how to touch Lincoln, he wonders what Lincoln is seeing as he gradually uncovers Grant's body, but his eyes seem heated and hungry, and that's exactly how Grant feels.

 

Finally they're both naked and kneeling on the bed next to each other and Grant isn't sure how exactly to move. They kiss, and there's warm, naked skin touching Grant's, and he welcomes every touch. There's a spot just under Lincoln's jaw that makes him whimper when kissed. His arms are long, his fingers are still elegant, despite months and months of hard work and running and saving people neither of them know. He's gorgeous to Grant, because he's familiar, he's the safety, he's _home_. They fumble a little until Lincoln wraps his hand around Grant.

 

Grant gasps, shaking, unfamiliar with the way his body is reacting to this. He doesn’t know what to do with himself except hold onto Lincoln and give in. Behind his eyes memories of Hive's lifetime flash and go away into nothingness. His hips jerk forward, forehead falling against Lincoln's shoulder as they both pant and moan. He thrusts forward with his hips.

 

Grant feels lost in the world of sensation, of touch and smell; soft mouth and wet tongue and warm skin he's gripping with his hands. He wants this to last, wants this fuck to go on until he can't breathe any more, until he passes out in bliss – and that's almost the way it happens. He comes hard, barely able to remain on his knees. Lincoln kisses him, long and deep, in a way that promises more – more of this, more of absolutely human contact. It takes a few more minutes until he can feel Lincoln shudder as well, realizing Lincoln has done all the work – and Grant thinks, distantly, how he's going to make it up to him. They collapse onto bed and Lincoln draws them close, arms and legs intertwined. Sated and spent he kisses Lincoln until they fall asleep.

 

*

 

In the morning Grant sneaks from under the covers, but just to make coffee and breakfast, and not before he carefully tucks Lincoln in. There's something about waking up wrapped in the warmth of someone else and it's hard to recall when was the last time he had that. (Rationally, he _does_ remember. It wasn't that long. Emotionally, that time feels eternity ago. He feels like he had pulled on his skin anew, like he's only learning what it's like to live within it.

 

Lincoln arrives just as the coffee is ready. Grant expects some awkwardness, braces for it, but it doesn't happen. Lincoln kisses him, and doesn't stop until Grant says they can't get distracted because they need to leave.

 

So they eat and have the coffee and their silence feels good, feels comfortable and warm. There's a tiny twinge of something inside Grant's chest when he locks the door. He feels like he's leaving something behind. He's just not sure what.

 

Later, at the bus station, Lincoln looks at him and joins their hands.

 

*

 

They part as they did dozen of times before, taking the different route to the island house. Grant picks the longer route for himself, making sure there are no clues in places they've been to. It gives Lincoln one day ahead, so when Grant arrives to the house (when he arrives _home_ ), there's warmth and food and Lincoln.

 

They kiss when the door is closed.

 

“Are you hungry?” Lincoln asks, and Grant shakes his head. He ate not two hours ago and what he needs is a shower and a change of clothes. He goes to bathroom and leaves Lincoln to whatever he was doing before Grant arrived – but five minutes later Lincoln enters the bathroom and undresses in couple of practical moves. Then he enters the shower too. Grant watches him, holding in his breath.

 

“Hey,” Lincoln says as water cascades down his chest. “You're here.”

 

It sounds a lot like “I've missed you”.

 

“I'm here,” Grant says, realizing that entire time since they've split up he's been waiting for this, anticipating this – the moment when they're safe and alone and naked, and he's ready to drown in Lincoln's warmth.

 

Lincoln smiles. “I'm so glad you are,” he says just before their lips meet.

 

 

 

*

 

Next morning Grant wakes up slowly, gradually becoming aware of things – the fact that there's daylight streaming into the room, that the bread has already been baked and coffee made (he can smell it). The fact that he's not alone.

 

For a moment he doesn't want to move at all. Lincoln is spooning behind him. He's somewhat taller than Grant; not much, but enough for him to be pressed against Lincoln with his entire body and feel warm.

 

“You're not late anywhere,” Lincoln says quietly.

 

“Why are you not asleep?”

 

“Because you twitched.”

 

“I twitched? And you woke up?”

 

“Doctor, remember?”

 

Grant groans. Lincoln quietly laughs. “Seriously. No rush.”

“And let the coffee get cold?” Grant says as he rolls around. Lincoln is grinning, completely amused.

 

“Microwave.”

 

Grant snorts.

 

“Warmed up coffee is blasphemy.”

 

“Well I made it. And I made the bread,” Lincoln says, his amusement only growing. Grant grins, telling himself that this kind of teasing is good, that it's normal. It's what ordinary people do every day. Lincoln takes him by surprise and kisses him. “That's the bribe.”

 

For a moment Grant feels a pang of nostalgia, thinking how this is something _Skye_ would do. But just for a moment. He is too practical, too reasonable not to appreciate what he has right now. So he kisses back.

 

“Fine. You're getting your coffee. In bed.”

 


	14. Make believe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy realizes she doesn't want to do surviving. 
> 
> She wants to _live_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this one ends with a cliffhanger. Come yell at me.

*

 

“You're sure you want this?” Lincoln asks, sitting down at the dining table next to Daisy. She rolls her eyes at him as a response.

 

“Don't I have the right to know what's in Simmons' notes?” she says. Lincoln looks down and lets her open the file. She notices the way Grant puts his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. “I didn't mean it like that,” she says. “You know I am... not really subtle.”

 

Lincoln sighs and smiles. He looks up at Grant. “I can join you too,” he says, looking at her. She knows he's not offering to join them, though. He's asking if he can. If he's welcome.

 

Daisy nods, her eyes steadily on his. He pulls up another chair, on her other side and takes a seat. She takes a breath and thinks, it's just a computer file. She's been looking at computer files which potentially contained crucial information about her for most of her adult life – so what's another one? She looks at Lincoln and he nods, gently looking at her, and then she looks at Grant. She realizes his hand is on the table, pretending to casually be there. She knows better. It's an offering.

 

She takes it.

 

Her other hand brushes against Lincoln's knee. He gets the message, and finds her fingers under the table.

 

“We're here,” Lincoln says and Grant squeezes her fingers a little. It's a moment that somehow stands out. It means something, but she's just not sure what.

 

“I know you are,” she tells them, looks at both of them and consciously puts her trust in both.

 

 

Next two hours pass in a blur during which she randomly reaches for their hands. Lincoln talks her through everything he's discovered, explains what was done to her, explains that the formula used could, in time, break apart, resulting in return of her powers. It could happen, he says. She looks at him, looks at his eyes, and knows what he's not saying.

 

“Or maybe, it won't happen,” she says. He looks at her, long and sad. Next to her, Grant is holding her hand. His hand is bigger than hers, his palm is calloused, warm, nicely dry. There's softness about how he's holding her. She mentally leans into that contact and looks at him. What was that thing he told her so long ago, when they were on the plane and she was screaming at him? _I'm a survivor_ , he said. And he is. She knows. She understands now that all his life has been a fight to survive, and how he kept surviving against all odds.

 

Maybe that's what she needs now?

 

(She has become so much like him anyway.)

 

She looks back at Lincoln. He looks tired; frustrated and helpless. They can hang by this thread, hold at it with nails and teeth and it could all be in vain. She can let it dictate her existence, her life; _their_ life.

 

Or, she can choose not to allow it.

 

“Close it,” she tells Lincoln.

 

“Are you sure you don't want me to -?”

 

She nods. She doesn't need to hear more about it. Doesn't want to. She feels calm and sad, but she feels certain.

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

Some time later she's stubbornly resisting cold and staring at the frozen wonderland around the house. The snow is falling again and the wind is picking up. Grant comes out to stand next to her, matching her lack of jacket and wearing only sweater. It's too cold to stand outside just like that, but Daisy appreciates the bite of the chill all over her skin. She feels her body trying to fight it off, she feels herself shivering, she's realizing that she's _alive_.

 

“Trying to catch pneumonia?” Grant asks.

 

Daisy snorts. “You've spent way too much time with Lincoln,” she says.

 

“Maybe,” he says.

 

“Not maybe. Most certainly,” she tells him. “But you're a healthy lifestyle freak on your own, so,” she trails off, thinking about how that's the _old_ Ward. The one who was her SO. The one she tried to convince herself was a lie. The thing is, she never got to know him properly, consciously, without fear. “At least I think you are.”

 

He smiles in that quiet way of his. It's a kind of smile that makes her feel like she's allowed anything and everything. It's still an emotionally loaded subject, it's still so much painful baggage, but at some point they have to start unpacking it. And when he's smiling like that, she feels it's okay to ask. “You didn't pretend that,” she says.

 

“No,” he pauses to smile again. “I took care of my health, my body,” he tells her. “I do that now too.”

 

“Once a spy,” she says, but without any bitterness in her voice. “I started exercising so hard and so much that I ended up spending more time in the gym than anywhere else,” she says. He nods like he knows what she means. “I... can think of someone else like that, you know,” she looks at him under her eyelashes, remembering how she refused to do a pullup. How he chided her. How she thought she could _never_ be like him. “Well,” she turns to face him and makes sure the look on her face is amiable. “You can bribe me into coming back inside.”

 

His smile turns amused. God, she thinks. It's _exactly the same_.

 

“With what?”

 

“I really want a burger. And french fries.”

 

She watches as his smile broadens, she knows he's remembering too; she knows she is just like before, just like she was when she was still Skye. And that, that's something that's only theirs. The knowledge of that tingles inside her chest.

 

“We can definitely have burgers for dinner, but we don't have any french fries. But we could have milk shakes.”

 

“You can make milk shakes?”

 

“Nah. The sweet stuff, that's what Linc does,” he says. They're looking at one another and she's aware her smile is growing along with his. She picks up on the nickname he used. It tickles her for some reason. She can't, however, look away from his smile.

 

“Except if it's pancakes,” she teases him a little. He gives her a mock indignant look.

 

“Those are pancakes,” he says, “Besides Lincoln is lazy.”

 

She doesn't expect him to say that, and she doesn't expect the kind of fondness in his voice that carries his statement. “He's lazy?”

 

Grant nods. “What would you call someone who gets out of any task he can get out of?”

 

“Resourceful?” she says, intent on teasing him further. He's pretending to fume, he reminds her of her SO so much and she lets herself be reminded of it all. It's okay now, she tells herself. There's nobody here who would expect of her to be something she isn't. Or to hate him, despite her thorough failure to succeed in that task.

 

“There's no point arguing with you,” he says and opens the house door. Daisy happily steps inside – because inside it's warm and soft and safe. There's no harsh cold of any kind in here.

 

*

 

She starts accompanying the guys during their errands and finally gets to know the people living near them. She learns how good they are towards the elderly neighbors and the people living far away, and if she is honest, she isn't surprised. She visits Dave with Grant. They drive to the shore and Grant tells her about fishing, about Dave's boat, about the whales. He promises her she can come with them, if she'd like it.

 

(She would.)

 

Lincoln introduces her to Sophie, Dave's niece. She runs a bookshop in Pelican, and by some strange accident, this happens on a day when all of the computer systems in the library crash. It takes her ten minutes to fix the problem, ten more to decide she likes Sophie and her fiance Nate.

 

Two days later Sophie visits them and offers Daisy to come and work with them. Part time, if she prefers that over full time, because Christmas is just around the corner and they could use some help. Not to mention a computer whisperer.

 

Grant cracks up at that.

 

Daisy agrees.

 

 

After just couple of days Daisy realizes she was missing having a social life. She needed the peace and quiet, and she still loves it, but it seems she is ready to connect with people again. Even if it's just for a couple of minutes, over recommendation for books.

 

She also realizes that nearly everyone seems to know who she is, and that Lincoln and Grant are undoubtedly popular.

 

“I'm tired of updating old ladies on your wellbeing,” she tells them one evening while she's washing dishes. They both laugh.

 

“That's all Grant's doing,” Lincoln says.

 

 

Of course, earning money feels great too. They don't really lack anything, which is why she can indulge herself and the guys and bring home silly things, like Pikachu T shirt or a coffee mug that says “T – 1000”. (Grant turns so wistful when she gives him that. They explain to Lincoln what it means. They manage to laugh at all the nicknames she used to have for Grant.)

 

 

She brings home cookbooks with a single purpose. She leaves them open on the kitchen counter in the morning and usually comes home to a fabulous dinner. They don't talk about it but the arrangement is clearly there and she feels like she has two personal wish fulfilling fairies, who feed her, make her laugh and bring her blankets when her feet get cold.

 

Sometimes she's early enough to find the guys in the kitchen while cooking and volunteers to help. It comes down to passing kitchen utensils, but what she enjoys is when she stands between them, and her arms almost touch either of them.

 

She lets herself remember the kitchen on the playground and the gym on the bus and how it felt before.

 

She lets herself long for those days.

 

 

 

They get the house ready for Christmas together. Grant hauls a tree from the woods, through the snow and the cold. Daisy feels like this is some other world.

 

Like that world where she met both Grant and Lincoln doesn't exist.

 

(She's fine with that.)

 

They decorate the house with star shaped lights and put up the tree. She spends an afternoon wrapping the presents. Grant, Lincoln, Dave, Nate, Sophie. They invite Dave for dinner. She makes bread with Lincoln and that's way more fun than it should be. (There's also flour all over the kitchen. Grant just rolls his eyes at it and two of them.)

 

 

The Christmas morning is bright and clear, and when Daisy comes to the living room she realizes there's an additional package underneath their tree. It has a card that spells “Daisy”. The guys are sitting at the dining table wearing conspiratory smiles.

 

“Well? Aren't you going to open it?” Lincoln asks.

 

“It's...,” she pauses, taking the package. It's not heavy, and it's somehow soft and she can't possibly guess what could be inside. For a moment she remembers Christmases she spent alone, wishing someone would do this for her. Then she tells herself that living in this moment is more important than living in her memories. “Of course.”

 

To their delight she tears the paper.

 

She gasps in surprise when she does open it.

 

“That's the -”

 

“The jacket you liked,” Lincoln says as she lifts up the leather jacket she saw at their first trip to the town.

 

“You still like it?” Grant asks just a tiny bit uncertain. She tells herself that he probably doesn't understand the purely feminine look of adoration towards a very pretty piece of clothing.

 

“Of course,” she tells him. “It's beautiful,” she adds and to demonstrate her feelings properly, she pulls the jacket on over the sweater she's wearing – which belongs to one of them, actually. The jacket barely goes over it, but two of them laugh.

 

She doesn't think much when she walks up to them and kisses each on the cheek.

 

However, she definitely thinks about that later, as the day goes on.

 

 

*

 

 

However the real excitement happens late in the evening. She's brushing her teeth and watching the water flow into the sink, listening to it's sound and remembering the unique vibration of the water. She tries to remember as much as she can now, intent to keep at least the memory, if she can't have anything else. How it felt to just... focus on the vibration and push out.

 

She opens her palm near the flowing water, telling herself that she's like a little girl playing make – believe.

 

Only then the water _moves_ _away_ from her hand.

 

Daisy drops her tooth brush, calling for Lincoln and Grant.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Make believe, part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy makes an important discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks, The chapter you've been waiting for and asking about. Please be so kind and leave comments. It means so much to hear what you think - on this chapter especially. (and yes - I did post two chapters in one day, thanks to the fact that I've had this chapter mostly written for months now. And I was excited to share it.)

*

 

She closes her eyes and focuses. If she looks really hard, she can see the effect of her effort as the glass moves a tiny little bit along the smooth surface of the dining table.

 

Daisy groans. She is still used to the effortless nature of manipulating objects around her. Of feeling their vibrations and knowing how to push them.

 

“It's okay, Daisy,” Lincoln says. “You should probably rest.”

 

“But did you see it?” she asks, and while Lincoln nods with a smile, she looks at Grant.

 

“It was amazing,” he tells her.

 

She moved the flowing water. And this glass. That's it. It's nothing special, compared with what she could do. But if Grant says it was amazing, he _means it_.

 

She finally sits back, her eyes still on the glass. When she rubs her eyes she realizes how _tired_ she is, but it's been worth it. She's excited and she's happy, and she feels like things have finally started falling into place.

 

*

 

Except it doesn't. Even though the powers gradually came back to other Inhumans, previously exposed to Simmon's serum, it doesn't happen with Daisy.

 

She is patient for two days. When nothing changes on the third day, Daisy realizes something is different. All the data Lincoln is able to find more or less says the same. Once the powers start returning, the process is ongoing.

 

Something is wrong.

 

She tries not to freak out, especially not in front of Lincoln. She suspects she cannot hide how she feels from Grant. The content atmosphere of their home feels broken. She watches Lincoln every evening, how he keeps reading and re reading the file, looking for something he might have missed. He checks her vitals several times a day, asks all the standard questions. The circles under his eyes are darker each day. Daisy doesn't want to give him answers. She feels like she's disappointing him.

 

She turns to the only thing she knows will work – training. She does the pushups and situps and every other exhausting, muscle – pain inducing exercise that Grant ever demanded of her. She pushes herself until all of her is sore and the pain in her mind is more prominent than the hollow frustration of being teased with her powers – only to be unable to bring them back.

 

 

But every morning she tries anew. Puts a glass on the table when the guys are not around. Focuses. It moves barely an inch.

 

Daisy closes her eyes and tries her best to feel it existing right there, just out of her reach.

 

It seems to stay out of her reach.

 

 

*

 

In retrospect, Lincoln should have expected it.

 

He should have known that it would all just fall apart. He was aware of the frustration building on both sides, Daisy's futile attempts to regain her powers and Grant's powerlessness to somehow stop her pain.

 

And it all implodes one evening, when she's washing the dishes. Lincoln becomes aware that the sound of her working is gone, and that he can only hear the flowing water. He looks up at the same time when Grant does. He sees Daisy, with her hands on either side of the sink, her palms open and turned towards the water. He can't see her face, but he can see her tense shoulders. Something twitches on Grant's face the moment before she bites back a sob.

 

“It's no use,” she says, “it will _never happen_.”

 

“Daisy,” Lincoln tries, but this time her sobbing shakes him up and holds him pinned to the chair.

 

And Grant is getting up. Lincoln sees the purpose in the way he moves. At first he tries to comfort her, put his hands on her shoulders and say something assuring, but she just shrinks on herself, stubbornly turned towards the running water.

 

“Let me try to help you,” he says.

 

And _that_ happens faster than Lincoln is able to get up from his chair or even _say_ something.

 

Grant turning Daisy so she'd face him. His palm on her right cheek. Him telling her to look at him.

 

It lasts a couple of seconds before Daisy _screams_ and breaks away from him, looking _terrified._

 

*

 

An hour later she's still shaking. Her mind is reeling from the familiar sensation of connecting – it was _same_ , only it wasn't. Her mind knows it's not the same thing. Her heart is hammering against her ribcage, She knows Grant meant well, that he meant to help her, but she can't calm down. There was no instant gratification of her emptiness.

 

She can hear Lincoln and Grant below, in the kitchen – can't make out the exact words, but the tones are hushed and upset. Grant sounds tense, and Lincoln is more quiet. Part of her wants to stay here, closed in her room, wrapped in her own fear; but the part of her that enjoys sitting on the porch, the part that loves her star lights and sitting squished between the guys in the pickup truck, that part makes her open the door and sneak out.

 

She's not sure _why_ she's sneaking out. There's a sensation nagging at the back of her mind, almost there, but she's still not quite sure what is it. The door is almost completely closed – the door is _never_ closed, and she pauses, feeling sudden discomfort that doesn't have anything to do with what Grant has done to her.

 

“I shouldn't have -” Grant is saying. He pauses and sighs.

 

“You're not helping anyone like this, Grant,” Lincoln sounds patient, sounds soft and compassionate even though there's an edge to his voice too. “You wanted to help.”

 

“I should have _asked_ ,” Grant replies.

 

“You were reacting to what you felt was urgent. You weren't thinking clearly. And when she got scared, neither was she,” Lincoln says. They're quiet for awhile. “It's going to be okay,” Lincoln says. Then she hears Grant, and his voice sounds completely broken.

 

“How do you know?”

 

There's a pause. “I know everything, remember?”

 

She's not sure what exactly prompts her to move closer and look inside. Maybe it's Lincoln's tone, one she knows is accompanied by a smile. When she does, they're leaning against the sink, both of them; Grant braced against it with his hands and Lincoln with one hand on Grant's shoulder. She can see Lincoln reassuringly squeezing, staying there until Grant straightens a bit.

 

She feels relief. And then, immediately after, she feels confused. Because she sees Lincoln moving in a familiar way that's subtly offers something, and when Grant literally _sinks_ into his embrace, she _remembers_ that exact movement. She had it offered to her. Did she forget how it looked? It's not a reassuring hug she'd see between guys at the base. It's different, it's... _intimate_ , she realizes, the way Grant pushes his face into Lincoln's shoulder, the way they wind their hands around one another. The sadness that's radiating off of Grant, which makes her chest ache. The way Lincoln holds him, like he wants to absorb it all. And while she's holding her breath, while she's still not sure what's going on, they pull back. And there's a way Lincoln holds Grant's face in his palms, like he's done it before.

 

_Oh God_ , she thinks, because her realization forms just a moment before it happens.

 

_They kiss_.

 

They _kiss_ each other.

 

She takes an unconscious step back but somehow she's stuck there, watching – watching how Grant angles his face (she _remembers_ that), how Lincoln gives in and opens his mouth (she _remembers that as well_ ), how they keep doing it, kiss after a kiss, like this is second skin, like they've done this a thousand times... like leaning foreheads together is familiar (like it used to be, _for her)_.

 

Something breaks inside of her. She can feel it inside her chest. The realization makes her insides suddenly open and cold and empty because – because all of the gentle looks, all of her tentative smiles, all of her hopes (because _yes_ , she _hoped_ , she realizes only now) were _in vain_. They're pressing closer to each other and Grant makes that small sound, the one that remained etched into her mind and still makes her shake, and Lincoln used to hold her like that. But... but now they don't need her, don't they? _They don't need her._ She's not wanted. She pulls back, quiet like a shadow, because she feels like one, like faint echo of the person she was just a few hours ago when she believed – oh God, how _stupid_ she was.

 

Because they had every right to move on.

 

Because she shot Grant. And left him to bleed.

 

And she did equally horrible things to Lincoln.

 

She moves away, inches towards bathroom, realizing why she ended up wearing a sweater that was actually Grants – because they switch their clothes – because it's _normal_ , _it's what they do_ \- realizing why there was no distinction between hygiene products, why she saw Lincoln exit his room so rarely. Because they were – they are _together_. This _entire time_. And – and – they were hiding it because, oh God, because they didn't want to hurt her. Because they knew, and pitied her.

 

 

There's a bottle of bourbon hidden behind boots and fishing equipment. She steals it, she can at least have that, can she? Lincoln _hates_ bourbon. He drank vodka, and tried some other drinks but he hates bourbon. That actually makes Grant a _considerate_ _boyfriend._

 

_Boyfriend._ She thinks she might throw up.

 

 

 

She doesn't need a glass for this. She drinks, once, twice, three times. She stops counting. Her metabolism is a lot alike her mother's. It takes nearly half a bottle until she feels almost dizzy and ready. She's not sure for what. She just feels she can wipe the tears away and stay calm.

 

She will make mess of herself. She's holding onto railing and going down the stairs. Maybe she'll catch them in bed. She's not going to knock. She's _not_. Maybe they're having comfort sex. She pauses in front of the door. It's quiet. There's little bit of light coming from underneath the door.

 

She throws the door open. Best Quake fashion, she thinks. (She still hates the name.) _They_ – they look so domestic, both sprawled on the bed, each with his book. She doesn't believe what she's seeing. It's like that fucking joke, where your exes meet in a bar, only her exes met in a bar, banged and left her without cab money.

 

(She's being melodramatic.

 

That's because she's shitfaced. Because of _them_. And _look at them_. )

 

“Daisy?” Ward says and he's sitting up, and oh my God, both of their expressions are hilarious because – ha – caught, much?

She grins. “You sure it's not Skye this time?”

 

Lincoln is giving her this sharp look, he's onto her, he knows this is bullshit, but Grant, oh _Grant_. He doesn't want to hurt her, right? He's getting up. He doesn't want to hurt her so he's getting all into that damage control mode. Yeah, that one when she discovered he was _fucking Hydra_. The mere thought makes her want to punch the living daylights out of him. “Save me the explanation. How long were you going to fuck behind my back?”

 

Grant opens his mouth, she doesn't even let him speak. She feels this hot burning emotion, this ugly bastard child of anger and loneliness and being left behind and believing _they were both dead_ and her soul _couldn't move away from that notion one fucking inch_.

 

Except they were fucking each other while she grieved her heart out. That. And she's drunk. Ish.

 

“Why not do it so that I can see? I was giving you heart eyes like an idiot -” she turns to Lincoln then, “You let me shave your face and, and, _he said it was great_ ,” she points at Grant. “Did you get a hard on, Ward? Isn't he prettier now? Was the sex good?? You could at least let me _watch_ , because I haven't been laid in centuries -”

 

“Skye, please don't,” Grant says and she fucking loves how she made him _slip._

 

“It's _Daisy_ , you bastard,” she says. He's coming closer and she doesn't want it. So she pulls back but he's advancing and her foot hits something and she nearly falls and he _catches her._ “You said – you _promised_ -” she starts, realizing suddenly that he _didn't_ promise her anything. In the beginning yes, but she walked all over that promise, didn't she? He's not bound to keep it in any way. He's looking at her in that soft way, that same goddamned way that made her kiss him first time around. But he's _never promised her anything_ , except not to lie to her, he never promised her some kind of eternal love, she just _assumed_ she'd have it.

 

Stupid her.

 

_Stupid her._

 

Behind Grant she can see Lincoln, tall and soft looking and worried, and she doesn't want that. She doesn't want comfort, she wants to feel alive, she wants to feel warm.

 

Grant is closer so she hits him, her fist against his chest and it hurts, but the pain is _warm_.

 

“Fuck you,” she says and punches him again and he lets her. He always let her hurt him, so she does it again, and again, and she trips again. Stupid drunk her, because Grant is holding her up now. She's yelling at him, her mouth and her brain disconnected. “Fuck you, Grant, fuck you both, because you don't need me, you _don't want_ me -”

 

“Skye, please,” he's saying, his soft tome at odds with his firm grip. She tries to take a swing at him again, pulls her hand away and launches herself into him. There she crashes against his chest and his arms go around her.

 

Grant never hugged her.

 

_Grant never hugged her,_ she realizes and it _breaks_ her. She starts crying and she's still punching his chest and he's holding her and shushing her and then she feels another pair of arms go around her – around both of them. She didn't think it could hurt any worse but it does, because _this is all she wants_. This, this, this – to be held, to feel like it's her place there. She screams and Grant pulls her closer, holds her tighter and Lincoln is behind her, his entire body pressed against hers as he kisses the top of her head.

 

“You don't _want_ me,” she's saying over and over, “You don't _need_ me.”

 

“It's not true, Daisy,” Lincoln says.

 

(She is not aware of the look they give each other).

 

“We _do_ want you,” Grant adds.

 

“ _We want you_ ,” Lincoln says. “We both want you. Isn't that right, Grant?”

 

“We want you,” Grant says and she can feel his words vibrate through his chest.

 

She cries. She cries _loudly_ ; she cries for them and for herself, for the girl with the long hair, she cries for the girl who kept losing and losing – and she _cannot_ lose any more. Grant's embrace is safe and she gives herself to it. They're both there, both holding her, both saying things to her, soothing, gentle things.

 

Exhausting herself feels like it takes an eternity, but they're there. They bring her to the edge of the bed where she's huddled between them, leaning against Lincoln now. “It's okay,” he's saying, “We've got you.”

 

She lets herself fall against him, as the crying goes away.

 

“Do you need something?” Grant asks, and God, she needs _so many things_. But right now, she can't bring herself to move from here. She's tired, she's so tired.

 

“I don't want to be alone,” she says.

 

“Good,” Grant says. She registers him squeezing her hand before moving away, kneeling in front of her to untie her boots and take them off.

 

“Stay here,” Lincoln says and before she says anything, they're pulling her with them. Soon she's on the bed, snuggled between them. She's trying to even out her breathing as she's snuggled against Lincoln's chest. He kisses the top of her head again and she looks up at him – the smile she knows, and the tiny lines around his eyes. Clumsy, raw and needy, she moves closer to kiss him. He lets her.

 

There's a warm hand in the center of her back. She turns around slowly, and now she's facing Grant, and the soft, devoted look is still there. She pulls close, looking up at him, feeling small and harmless, helpless. He's so big, such huge presence, and she's looking up at him begging him to keep her safe this time around. His fingers are toying with her hair, touching her cheek. He doesn't move otherwise.

 

“Please, Grant,” she says, because she can't make herself make the first move.

 

_Please, Grant, expose your heart to me again. Make yourself vulnerable to me._

 

And he does, he does _just that,_ moving closer and kissing her – her forehead, her eyelids, after which he carefully wipes away remaining tears. And then, _then_ he kisses her lips. And it's perfect. Soft and undemanding and perfect. She grabs his shirt and keeps him in place because she _needs_ to kiss him. She needs more. _More._ She needs Lincoln. She turns to him and he kisses her too. They're being so soft with her, keeping this undemanding as possible. She's on her back and they're both kissing her, and her chest is rising and falling and she can feel it all. She can _feel_.

 

And then she can't take it any more so she pulls them both close and holds them, and they're hugging her, safe, gentle arms around her. She cries, but these are different tears, and they let her; and she lets them wipe the tears away.

 

She cries herself to sleep.

 

 

 


	16. Being warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fluff. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, what the summary said. This chapter is mostly fluff. 
> 
> Also, I apologize for not replying to the comments yet. *headdesks* I will, I promise. I read them all, and I think about everything you guys say to me - sometimes even a little too much.

 

She experiences slow, gradual waking for the first time in forever. She's warm, and she's warm all over, and she's so comfortable even though she's snuggled between two tall men and they're both close to her. The bed is soft. Her face is close to Lincoln's chest. Grant's arm is around her, pleasantly heavy against her ribcage. She's holding onto it.

 

She moves experimentally, just a little bit. Behind her Grant makes a sound, a content sleepy sound and pulls her a bit closer. Lincoln sighs. She doesn't think she can handle this kind of happiness.

 

“Sleep,” Lincoln says.

 

“Who twitched this time?” Grant asks quietly.

 

“You both did,” Lincoln says, carefully moving away. She protests, trying to pull him back to her. “Twitchy people. Go back to sleep.”

 

“And where are you going?” she asks, trying to grasp his arm. He lets her, leans over to kiss her cheek before he tucks her in with his blanket.

 

“I know two people who will be up in just a couple of hours and they'll want their freshly baked bread. Someone has to make it,” Lincoln says.

 

“Mhmm,” she answers. Fresh bread. That's... good. Yeah, she _likes_ that idea. Lincoln gives her another kiss. And another. He's so generous like that. Then she feels him lean over, realizing he kisses Grant too. It's such a nice display of affection, she thinks. It feels like something they do on regular basis. She sighs as Grant pulls her closer. She rather likes how they express affection. “Yep. You're right. I definitely want bread.”

 

“Why am I not surprised,” Lincoln says before he softly walks out.

 

Daisy turns around, so that she's facing Grant. He kisses her forehead as she snuggles close. She stretches and steals a kiss, and then another. Then she presses her face against his chest, her arm around him. She's relearning the feel of him, the shape of his body, the way his muscles curve. How they feel under her hand. To her delight, Grant seeks out her lips as if he read her mind; kissing her until she's tired and content and smiling at him.

 

“Good?” he asks, as she keeps stealing tiny, soft kisses from him.

 

It's not like he wouldn't allow her that, so she really has to _steal_.

 

“Good,” she says, sighing. She falls asleep, her face on his pillow.

 

 

 

Next time she wakes up, she's up fully snuggled against Lincoln. Or rather, it's the other way around, and the feeling of him wrapped around her is the best thing ever. (He's so _warm_.) She can the hear sounds from the kitchen and guesses that's Grant preparing breakfast.

 

(Coffee. Breakfast. Hours spent gazing through the window, walks through the knee deep snow. Lunches and dinners, taking photographs. The bookshop. _Lincoln and Grant_. She recounts what her life is revolving about and she likes it.)

 

Lincoln is asleep. She snuggles against him, indulges her own desire to feel all of the familiar things she missed and ached for and does so until her stomach is protesting loud enough to wake him. Before that actually happens she makes herself get up, which is difficult because this bed is suddenly the most wonderful place she can imagine. But as she nears the kitchen she feels the rush and excitement and anticipation. She sees the familiar sight, Grant loading the breakfast food onto plates, and she pauses for a moment to let herself feel this sight as something that's _hers._

 

He's talking on the phone, quietly, and he sees her standing there and smiles. There's a bit insecurity in that smile, and sweetness and hope and something she can't quite describe. She's looking at him, standing there tall and whole and healthy and she's letting the sight wash over her and settle into her mind.

 

She can't handle the insecurity he's carefully trying to wrap under everything else – she doesn't want to see it on his face. She walks over to him, hugging him around his waist, her face pressed against his chest. She stays like that until he finishes the conversation.

 

“Morning,” she says.

 

“You slept in,” he tells her, looking amused and content.

 

“The bed was rather tempting,” she tells him and they smirk at each other. “But the kitchen smells tempting as well.”

“Hungry?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” she says rather resolutely and stands on her toes to kiss him. It's a gentle kiss but there's a edge to it; however it loosens as they kiss. She lets Grant take over, and she lets him kiss her so gently that she forgets they're standing in the middle of the kitchen or that she's actually hungry. She's so thoroughly distracted that him lifting her onto the kitchen counter comes a s a total surprise. Grant smiles, there's a bit mischief in his eyes when he pulls her by the knees and she's now closer to him. It's much easier to kiss like this, when they're the same height. His hands rest on her thighs, warming her there and along her entire body while she's holding his face and seeking out his old ticklish spots.

 

Then her stomach growls.

 

“Ooops,” she says.

 

“Let's fix that,” Grant decides and starts to feed her. He's made an omelet with bacon. It's so sinfully good. She's going to be so fat.

 

She doesn't care.

 

He kisses her between the bites of food and she doesn't care about anything else.

 

“Um. I am experiencing abandonment issues over here.”

 

That's Lincoln, standing at the door she came through not so long ago. He looks disheveled and delicious, with a smirk on his face and his hair sticking up everywhere.

 

“So, come here and you won't be feeling abandoned,” Grant says with the kind of confidence and ease which Daisy finds curious.

 

He does, and since Grant is the one he reaches first, Lincoln kisses him first. Daisy mentally pauses as she stares at them as they kiss. Right here, in the daylight and up close; now when she can properly look knowing she's not excluded from any of it, she realizes _how_ seeing them kiss affects her.

 

She takes a sharp breath and kind of has to press her thighs together. It's so _hot_ , how they go at it. It's both gentle and raw and completely honest and she wants to drown in the emotion of it. She has to clear her throat. (She needs to think when was the last time she felt properly turned on).

 

“Guess someone else feels a bit abandoned?” Lincoln's tone is almost cheeky and his hands are soft. She's convinced she can taste Grant in his mouth, which only makes her dive into the kiss harder. When they pause for breath, she sees Grant standing by, smiling.

 

“Come here,” she says, and she lets the feeling of him leaning against both of her and Lincoln settle: it feels so completely natural. She kisses Grant, Grant kisses Lincoln, Lincoln kisses her; it goes on and on and on, and it occurs to her only now that making herself choose would be the thing that's not natural. She winds one hand around Lincoln's neck, the other around Grant's, and thinks how she never imagined their smiles like this, side by side. Now, it's the most beautiful thing she can think of. She thinks how this is the only outcome that could ever make her feel this _happy,_ actually, _genuinely happy_. She pulls away eventually and feels like her face will crack from smiling so much.

 

“We could eat,” Grant says softly, “And then you could call Sophie and ask nicely if you could stay home today,” he says and Lincoln is nodding.

 

It's the most fulfilling feeling ever, she thinks. It's like getting all those things she longed for as a young girl. Someone who wanted her so much, that there was nothing better in the world. She gives them each a quick kiss.

 

“Gotcha,” she says. “You set the table.”

 

*

 

The morning flows into midday and Daisy is trying to contain herself and act normal. Except she pauses often to just stop and look around. And it's like.... the room seems more colorful. The pillows softer. The light brighter.

 

Lincoln and Grant aren't even trying. She notices right away how they seem more relaxed. Lincoln jokes, and he jokes a _lot_ , and he's never been more like the guy she met at Afterlife; except his humor now seems to have an edge. Grant mostly smiles, but he does something else: he touches Lincoln whenever he gets the chance. It's feels new and strange to her, because she remembers a man who tended to keep practically anyone at arm's length. And then she remembers the Providence base, remembers how he let her touch him, how he reached out to hold her hand. As they go about daily chores Daisy prods her memory. She remembers the third kiss, the one when she was fooling him – only now she lets the memory of it flood her. She remembers how how _intense_ that kiss was.

 

It's not just with Lincoln either. He touches her too, or at least has the intention to do so, and sometimes he comes close and pauses short of reaching out, and she notices what Lincoln does then – he makes sure to somehow bridge the gap. It takes a little bit for her to recognize all the shades of longing in Grant's eyes. By the time they're setting the table for lunch, she makes sure to touch him as often as she can.

 

 

 

Daisy feels a little bit guilty for telling Sophie she has a headache so bad, she would like to stay at home. Technically, she does have a little bit of headache. It's pretty tame considering how much she drank last night and how much she cried afterward.

 

She refuses to think about her headache. Lincoln is chopping wood and she's standing on the porch, watching him. He glances at her from time to time, and his grin melts into a soft smile. It warms her up from head to toe. It makes ignoring the lingering headache, leftover from her bourbon escapade much easier. She focuses on Lincoln, on the knowledge that she's gotten him back. Nothing else seems to matter any more.

 

“You should drink more water,” it's Grant, somehow managing to sneak up on her. She looks up at him through her eyelashes – here where she wears flat footwear she's become properly aware of his full height.

 

He's holding the glass of water in a way that says he's expecting her to take it, and drink it. She recognizes her old SO, quiet care disguised into stern rules: she also realizes he's onto her and she gives him a sheepish smile as she takes the glass.

 

“I think I owe you a bourbon,” she says.

 

He smirks. It's so curious to see him amused. So new, and so familiar at the same time. She feels small under the familiar gaze; almost like she could reach back into those old days and find her own soul, unwounded and whole.

 

“Mhmm. A pretty good one too,” he says.

 

It's really hard to tell when Ward is teasing – and she thinks she's heard the opening, the invitation in the slightest shift in his tone and the spark in his eyes.

 

“And I thought you can tell good drink from absolute crap,” she says.

 

He subdues a smile. She's searching his eyes when he kisses the top of her head. “Drink your water,” he says.

 

She does, curiously observing him. She picks up on something else, a certain upset vibe to him; but there's no time to study it more. Lincoln is done with the wood chopping, and kind of makes a show of it.

 

“You two, if you want your butts warmed, are welcome to help out here,” he says. He's obviously cold, his cheeks and ears all red, and he hurries into the house, but not before he kisses both Daisy and Grant. “Excuse me, I have to go pee.”

 

Daisy laughs. It seems to relax Grant from whatever mood that briefly took over him. “So, mountain men have to go pee?”

 

“Mhmmm,” Grant says, nodding seriously. They pick up enough wood to keep the fireplace going through the afternoon, and Grant goes out once more to stack their wood supply. He lets Lincoln stoke the fire that's already been going. Daisy decides she wants to watch a movie and tinkers with the TV and the laptop, trying to connect them. Grant busies himself with putting away the dishes they washed earlier. Fifteen minutes later Daisy gives up and sits in the middle of the couch with the laptop on her knees. Lincoln scoots close, sitting on the left side.

 

“What are you looking for?” he asks, as she goes through the collection of the movies she's been able to acquire in past couple of months.

 

“Something you supposedly didn't watch,” she says. That's when Grant shows up, carrying three bowls It turns out to be ice cream – something rich, with chocolate chips and cherries and biscuits. She didn't even know they had ice cream, let alone something as good as this.

 

“Oh,” he says as he sits to Daisy's right. He seems to recognize the first few minutes of the film. “Terminator?” Daisy nods.

 

“This one,” she gestures at Lincoln, “claims he has never seen it.”

 

Grant nods. “Ahhhh. This is Daisy educating us on important matters then?” he asks.

 

“Yes and,” she looks at one then the other, “I really like this movie.”

 

It _is_ fun, watching this with them as they nitpick the movie. She strongly suspects that their comments are designed with a single purpose of making her laugh. Eventually, she ends up half napping, in her spot between the guys snuggled close against her.

 

“I think it's time for a proper bed,” Lincoln says. She's not sure who exactly removes the laptop from her knees and who carries her upstairs. Something inside her is not letting her open her eyes, almost as if this entire day could just disappear if she did.

 

She's asleep even before they reach the bedroom.

 

*

 

There's something so entirely content about waking up slowly. Daisy tries to asses her surroundings even before she opens her eyes. All she knows is that she's snuggled between her two guys, and that she can hear heartbeat near her face. And even though they're so physically close to her, she doesn't want to stretch to make more room for herself.

 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” that's Grant's voice under her ear. It's his heartbeat echoing through her body. She wonders what she would feel if she could feel his vibrations.

 

“Mhmmm,” she makes a sound that's a bit unrecognizable to her ears too.

 

“I guess I can go make coffee now she's awake,” she hears Lincoln, and feels him getting up.

 

Daisy thinks about saying something about making her wake up completely, just because she doesn't want to miss out on freshly brewed coffee. She lets herself doze off a little while Longer. When she opens her eyes she finds that she's snuggled against grant while he's reading a book. She wants to know what it is, but she's too lazy to focus on it. Or anything for that matter.

 

Something does bother her a bit.

 

“I'm sorry,” she says.

 

His attention shifts immediately from the book to her.

 

“About what?”

 

“About last night,” she sighs. “I was a little.... upset.”

 

“If anything, I am sorry. I acted like …. like I shouldn't have.”

 

She snuggles tighter against him, her chest against his side, her arm around his torso. “You wanted to help me.”

 

“I should have warned about how it works. I wasn't thinking about how it could affect you,” he pauses, lowering the book, and letting his fingers get lost in her hair. “I was focused on myself. On...,” he sighs.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

“It really sounds selfish, now when I think about it,” he tells her. She looks up and she sees him staring at the ceiling.

 

“Well, tell me,” she says. “Because I want to know. I don't want any more secrets.”

 

He moves, much to her dismay, but then they're both on their sides, really close and facing each other.

 

“I was focused on how much it hurt, to see you suffer,” he tells her, biting his lip. “I didn't think about what you needed. But what I wanted to do,” he says, lowering his eyes.

 

Daisy lets this sink in for just a moment.

 

She thinks about what he always tried to do for her; she thinks about his own pain. What it does .to best intentions of anyone, let alone someone who suffered his entire life.

 

She looks at him, long and soft, cover his hand with hers, cups the side of his face.

 

“That's nothing to apologize for,” she tells him. “Because it's only human.”

 

She doesn't even think about kissing him. It just happens, like it's something they've been doing since forever. She lets him roll her to her back, so he's above her, and she enjoys holding his face, looking in his eyes, caressing his lips whenever they pause for breath.

 

“You two should really get a room,” Lincoln jokes when he comes back with three cups of coffee.

 

“We already have a room,” Grant replies smartly.

 

“And a bed,” Daisy adds. “Which kinda feels empty,” she says giving him a look that's probably a little bit dirty. He responds with a grin, leaves the coffee on the nightstand and crawls back into bed, close to her and Grant.

 

“So,” he says, his tone light and teasing. “What are we doing?”

 

She feels bold, looking at them so close to her and grabs Lincoln by the chin.

 

“You're playing a game called kissing Daisy,” she says.

 

“Oh?” Lincoln says. “Are we? How is that played?”

 

She smiles and squirms between them and feels familiar heat slowly waking up inside her body. It's too soon, she thinks, for anything other than kissing, but kissing is so delightful in itself, and she wants to enjoy every bit of it. She wants to know the tiniest detail about how they kiss.

 

She doesn't want to be warmed by her memories alone any more.

 

“I'll show you,” she says.

 

The coffee on the nightstand grows cold.

 

 


	17. I'll be right here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy, Lincoln and Grant need to process just what happened the day before. 
> 
> More fluff.

*

 

 

“Earth to Daisy,” Lincoln says gently, and she doesn't even stir. “We're here.”

 

She takes a sip for her takeout coffee and turns to him.

 

“But I don't want to go,” she whines.

 

“Well, too late. Sophie is in there and she probably already saw the car,” Lincoln says, observing her little pout and realizing this is a side of her he never truly saw before. “Except if you want me to go in there and come up with some creative lie about why you can't work today?”

 

She huffs and sighs. Then she gives him that really, soft, teasing look he loves. “Something that's cured with lots and lots of kisses?” she suggests and he's too busy staring at her; at the way she looks at him, at her lips, to realize they're about to kiss in public. Which they do. And once she kisses him, he can't really stop after just one kiss. He needs another. And another. And one more for the road. “Oh crap,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“PDA,” she bites her lip, and even though his brain is processing what she said, what he would love the most is to kiss her again. He doesn't care who sees them. “I didn't ask... but people probably know about. Um. You and Grant.”

 

“I see what you mean,” he says. “And you know, Grant is kind of pretty private. We never really put ourselves onto display here. But I suppose people always suspect.”

 

“Wait. You two are hot enough to power up entire city, and nobody actually knows you're together?”

 

“Dave knows,” Lincoln says. “And I guess Sophie does too. Which should make your day interesting, if she saw us kissing.”

 

She lifts her chin up. “I'll just tell her I seduced you,” she says. He cracks up at that.

 

“This town can use a good gossip,” he tells her and gives her a peck on the nose. “You can tell her if you want to. I'd rather have that than making Dave worried about three of us and our happiness.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Very,” he says. “Dave's been expecting some kind of tragic heartbreaking love triangle for months now.”

 

She's studying him intently, partly mortified and partly amused, and he thinks how this is the most relaxed he's seen her in a very long, long time.

 

“You're sure Grant would be okay with it?”

 

Lincoln kisses her briefly, as a way of assuring her. “Grant is crazy about you,” he says. “And so am I. And before it gets confusing, the only thing we could compete about is who will cuddle you more.”

 

He looks at her grinning. “What?” he asks.

 

“I want to hear about how you uh, got together in the first place.”

 

He smiles easily. “I'll be happy to tell you. Grant could be a bit more... closed off.”

 

“How come?”

 

Lincoln touches her nose with his finger. “It's nothing bad. It has to do with his powers and what happens when he connects to someone.”

 

“Oh,” she says, and he can see traces of realization. “His... memories?”

 

“Yes,” Lincoln says. She nods slowly.

 

“God. That had to be...,” she trails off, her eyes mellow and slightly sad.

 

“Grant is safe now,” Lincoln tells her, and she looks down as he does. “Don't blame yourself. He doesn't blame you. He loves you.”

 

She looks up again, frowning, but not in a bad way. “Those... those are huge words, actually.”

 

Lincoln gives her a soft smile then. “I wouldn't use them lightly,” he says. “Go now. We'll talk more after you're home.”

 

She nods. “Sophie will give me a lift.”

 

“Perfect,” he says.

 

 

She's watching as he drives away.

 

*

 

Whatever it was that Grant was doing, he leaves his task when Lincoln enters the house.

 

“There you are,” Grant says. He's smiling in a way that makes Lincoln pause.

 

“Yep, here I am,” he answers, taking off his jacket and removing his boots. He hangs his thick wool cap to dry, unwraps his shawl and folds it neatly. Grant observes him all the while. “What?”

 

“Oh, nothing. Just.... waiting.”

 

“For what?” Lincoln puts his gloves on top of his shawl, completely unsuspecting. Grant comes closer, so close that his intent is perfectly clear. When he says “For this,” Lincoln lets Grant kiss him.

 

“Oh?” he says against kisses. The way Grant is kissing him reveals more the longer it all lasts – Grant pulls him close and deepens the kiss and then they're completely pressed against each other. “ _Oh_.”

 

“I missed you,” Grant says.

 

It's so needy and raw. It's _so honest_.

 

“I was gone for half an hour,” Lincoln answers, lightly kissing back. He's omitting what's important on purpose, because he just wants to hear Grant explain, because he's missed Grant too, because he's been refraining from everything as well – smallest looks, tender touches, loud lovemaking.

 

“I missed you,” Grant repeats as they kiss. “So much. _So, so much_.”

 

“Well, you have me now,” Lincoln says and smiles. It doesn't matter if they accidentally swap clothes any more. She knows. And she's part of this – _will_ be part of this, eventually. When she chooses.

 

But now, he wants Grant, who is impatiently tugging at Lincoln's sweater and the shirt underneath.

 

“Bedroom first, undressing after, or else we're going to fall all over each other again,” Lincoln says. Grant tugs at his bottom lip and grins. (He looks so _happy._ )

 

“I have no problem with falling all over you,” he says.

 

“Admit it,” Lincoln grins just as happily, as they walk to the bedroom. “You just want to be on top.”

 

“Yes,” Grant says as they're inside the bedroom. He closes the door and starts kissing Lincoln once more.

 

“And what else do you want?” Lincoln asks, because he's happy and because he wants to make Grant happy. He takes off the sweater and the shirt he's wearing under all at once. As Grant stares at his bare chest and looks up at his lips, he pulls him by the belt until their hips meet. He's hard already, and Grant is too, and all Lincoln can think about is this.

 

There's a moment of silence before Grant answers, and when he does, it's surprisingly soft and honest. He takes off his top and carelessly tosses it away.

 

“Everything,” he says. Lincoln nods, observing the details of Grant's face and the scars across his chest. The way a smile can light up his face. The way he feels when he looks into Grant's eyes.

 

(How _loved_ he feels.)

 

“Then everything is what you shall get,” Lincoln says.

 

*

 

Daisy comes home to find Lincoln in the living room while Grant is soundly sleeping. Lincoln absolutely indulged him, until Grant was completely tired and completely relaxed. Daisy takes off the boots and the jacket, telling him about the cold, telling him how good the warmth inside feels. She pokes her head into the bedroom and grins.

 

“Wanna join him?” Lincoln asks, coming up behind her and rubbing her shoulders. They remain there for a bit, just watching Grant sleep. She shrugs.

 

“He looks younger,” she decides.

 

“Yes,” Lincoln says. “So much.”

 

She turns around to face him. “You know, it's strange. I feel like I yet have to get to know him.”

 

He leans closer and kisses the top of her head.

 

“Mhmmm,” he says, pulling her closer, her back against his front. It's a comfortable hug she willingly settles into. “Plenty of time for that. But I think.... that you do know him. You do.”

 

She turns around slightly and looks up at him, nodding and shifting until she's facing him. It's almost as if it's too hard to look either at Grant or him, so her eyes are intently stuck on his chest. “I need to.... properly remember you,” she says.

 

Lincoln kisses the top of her head.

 

“Yeah,” he says.

 

“Both of you,” she adds, placing her cheek against his beating heart. “It's... I tried so hard, for so long to forget him. Especially... the good things.”

 

He gives her arms a reassuring squeeze. “I understand,” he says. Her face is buried against the fabric of his shirt. She's not crying, she seems calm, but he knows better. He knows the magnitude of her guilt.

 

She is, after all, so much like Grant.

 

“There wasn't any other way you could have coped,” he tells her. Psych 101 comes in handy sometimes, he thinks. “If there was, you would have done it.”

 

“I was cruel to him,” she breathes against his chest. “If I wasn't...”

 

“Then everyone else would have been cruel to you. And you believed you couldn't handle that. And you were probably right.”

 

She hugs him around the waist, and breathes in the comfort of his presence. “You're too good. You're always so good,” she says. She finally looks up at him.

 

“It's not hard, being good to you,” he tells her with a smile. “Or him,” he looks at Grant. She takes a deep breath.

 

“I want to be there when he wakes up,” she says.

 

“Then go,” he tells her. “I'll be right here.”

 

 

 


	18. Waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you read and enjoy this chapter. It really means so much to me.

There's something about Grant when he sleeps.

 

Daisy tries to sleep too, at first, but too many thoughts are keeping her awake. She knows it's the unique opportunity to just study him, and she feels she really should do it, and that's why she's awake. And lying next to him, looking at his face, she finds it's hard to keep a coherent thread of thought, so she lets herself relax, and allows the memories to crash over her.

 

For some reason they come in reverse order. The worst ones are the first.

 

She struggles through them as she watches him sleep. Remembers shooting him as her eyes follow the sharp line of his nose. Remembers lying to him when he was captured behind the invisible wall. Remembers calling him cruel things, just to hurt him in return. Remembers wanting to break him. Just because he took her dreams and broke them. She stares at his lips and remembers kissing him the third time. How cold she felt back then. How her skin burned as he took her hand.

 

She looks at his lips, and remembers kissing him. How much she wanted it, how many times she dreamed about it.

 

She remembers arguing with him, teasing him, annoying him to the point where he'd do that badly hidden pout and sigh and she just wanted to smile at him forever. Because she felt and thought, correctly, that the world didn't smile at him enough.

 

And then... she just watches him as the images of the past wash over her. They feel happy and they feel melancholic and she finds she doesn't have to cling at them, or mourn them, or feel guilty for keeping them. She lets them pass her by, good and bad ones as she thinks about everything Lincoln told her.

 

Speaking of.

 

She swears she smells the coffee before Lincoln even shows up in her line of sight.

 

“Hey Daisy?”

 

She lifts her head and meets his smile. He's holding two cups, and all in all it's a very promising sight. She would love some coffee. She could use caffeine, just to help her clear her mind.

 

But despite wanting coffee – and she always wants coffee – it's hard to part from Grant. She does it slowly, and looks at him a couple more times and then quietly follows Lincoln. She nestles among many pillows in the living room and stares ahead, and Lincoln lets her, for awhile.

 

“Thinking?” he asks.

 

“Thinking back,” she tells him. Then she looks at her coffee cup, the floral pattern on it, and thinks about the pointless practice of keeping her scars only for herself. They hurt too much that way. “I didn't know he sleeps that much,” she says.

 

“Well. Sometimes,” Lincoln tells her. “Normally, he's always alert. He's always watching out. It's really hard for him to shut it all off,” he says and she nods. Ward always seemed like he was running parallel thought processes in his head.

 

She can relate.

 

“I think this place has been good for him,” she observes. There isn't really much to do here, especially when the snow falls thick and heavy. The tasks become a routine. It allows for certain predictability that makes relaxing possible. That, and being far away from everything, and the perpetual quiet of the landscape. That, and Lincoln.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“What – what?” she says.

 

“You have that look on your face. The one when you're thinking about something you don't want to share.”

 

Damn. Busted.

 

“Well. Yeah.”

 

Lincoln grins. “Yeah?” she looks down at her cup, wanting to hide in it, knowing he's still watching her. There's nothing malicious in his grin, no real intent to actually laugh at her in any way except fondness and care. “Spill,” he says and she looks up, remembering how this felt. Sharing herself, but not just with him. With another person – and those weren't many people to begin with.

 

Ward was one of those people. Ward was also the reason why she stopped sharing.

 

“I was just wondering...,” she shifts and grins and looks down, feeling somehow embarrassed. She knows though he will not let her off the hook, so she has to actually tell him what was on her mind. “How did you and Grant.... um. How did you hook up?”

 

Lincoln smiles. It's a cute, happy smile. There's fondness in his eyes. He's not judging her in any way.

 

“Are you asking who kissed whom first?” he says and she laughs out of sheer relief.

 

“Well, I wanna know that too, but I am more curious about how... _how_ it happened,” she tells him and his expression slowly softens into something more serious, but still fond and warm. The look in his eyes turns distant and mellow and she knows he is remembering, too.

 

“It's ironic, you know? For someone so private, so... very much about hiding himself behind such stoic mask, he exposed all of himself when he was healing me.”

 

“You mean... that connection he does when – when he- ?”

 

“Yes,” Lincoln says. She's grateful for the understanding way he looks at her. “He would try to fix my wounds and he ended up showing me his memories... and seeing my own. And I think it's simply a variation of Hive's abilities, and a result of how Hive altered Grant's body. And to think, helping me, a complete stranger, was more important than protecting his -,” Lincoln pauses. Pain flickers across his face for a second.

 

“I know what you mean,” Daisy says. Lincoln looks at her. It's such a heavy look.

 

“There were things you can't really describe. He couldn't describe. He didn't even want to remember them.”

 

Daisy looks down, remembering how she called it all a lie.

 

“And yet...,” Lincoln continues, and the way his voice sounds makes her look up. He's looking at the distance again, smiling. “And I wanted to protect him. I _needed_ to. I felt he needed it so badly, and I believed it he deserved it, despite everything. And it was.... I think I only realized it when someone almost killed him.”

 

“Someone almost... _killed_ him?” Daisy repeats as her heart skips a beat.

 

Lincoln slowly nods. “Only then I realized I didn't want to be without him. That I needed him and was afraid I'd lose him.”

 

Daisy keeps silent.

 

“It didn't take away from how I feel about you,” Lincoln says. She smiles, and he smiles in return and she feels she can breathe a bit easier. “And well, he's also tall, dark and handsome,” Lincoln adds and they crack up.

 

“I kissed him first,” Lincoln says. Daisy pauses, and just looks at him and Lincoln just shrugs. “I figured I'd wait forever if I waited for him to do it.”

 

“Oh geez, tell me about it,” she says. Their laughter subsides into giggles, and finally they calm down until Daisy is feeling content and peaceful, and finds she can look at Lincoln and just smile. He's giving her the same starstruck look she remembers so well. “So? Are you going to?” she asks, making her tone a bit teasing.

 

“Am I going to – what?”

 

“Kiss me?” she says.

 

“Oh. _Oh._ I most definitely will,” he says and she watches him as he gets up and sits close to her, leaning so close that she can smell his warmth. She parts her lips and welcomes his tongue and feels her whole body react at his touch.

 

She lets herself enjoy it all as they keep kissing on the couch.

 

*

 

She's not exactly sure how she knows he woke up. She's listening to music, Lincoln's he headphones connected to her phone, when she somehow knows it. Next to her Grant is lying on his side, as he was for the past half hour, but now he's looking at her.

 

She removes her headphones, feeling a bit blinded by the way he looks at her. By the way he easily smiles.

 

“Skye,” he says. She smiles back. She's pretty sure he's not being obtuse – in fact she's kind of happy that he says it, that his mind seems unfiltered and unrestrained. There's something sad and happy about the way he keeps making this faux pas, and then it occurs to her – it's not the mistake at all.

 

He's not wrong. She's still Skye.

 

She scoots closer and they shift and she ends up on top of him, kissing his face. She can feel his smile.

 

“What a way to wake up,” he says, as his hands slowly move along her back.

 

“Hey yourself,” she says. Their lips meet and stay together for a moment.

 

“I meant to call you Daisy,” he says.

 

She just smiles. To think that only a couple months ago it would annoy her.

 

“I know,” she says.

 

There's this thing about Ward's kisses – it might start out slow and full of affection, but every time they kiss, it changes. She feels swept away and she feels she's losing herself in it all as he takes over. They change positions, so he's now on top, kissing her like he's trying to convince her of something. Like he's trying to put all of his conviction, all of his emotions, every single bit of himself into the way he's kissing her.

 

She parts her legs and feels him pressing against her. She pulls him closer, feeling like she might melt into the sheets beneath her, like she's going to dissolve between their combine heartbeats.

 

Then it hits her. She knows how she knew he was awake. She can feel it under her palms and all along her body and at every spot where they're touching. It feels like he's some kind of a magnet pulling her out of herself. She gasps and he lifts his head to study her face.

 

“Daisy?”

 

She can _feel his vibrations_. Not as sharply as before, not as loud and clear, but she _can_ feel them. The steady pulse of his life right beneath her palms.

 

“I can feel you,” she says. He misunderstands, obviously, because he looks down at their bodies and gives her a grin that's half an apology.

 

“I didn't mean to -”

 

“Not that,” she say, even though she can definitely feel his hard on as well. “I mean I feel _that_ too. It's... nice,” she says and she knows her own grin is turning dirty at the teasing way he's looking at her and that they need to talk about this before the clothes start flying off, and that she needs to take it slowly because. Because. Oh God. She feels so _dizzy._ “I can feel you. My powers. It's... I can normally feel vibrations of everything around me. And... I couldn't up to... just now,” she says.

 

“Did they come back?” he asks and she wants to cry when she sees the hopeful way he's looking at her.

 

“A little bit, I think. I can feel a bit more than before,” she says.

 

Before she can yell Lincoln's name he gives her another kiss.

 

 

 

 


	19. Vibrations

*

 

Lincoln walks into the room while they're still kissing and she's giggling and trying to swat Grant away. Well, she's not _really_ trying.

 

“Oooh, nice that you called,” Lincoln says. Before she can tell him anything he hops onto the bed, and just because Grant is more easily accessible, he kisses Grant.

 

Daisy has the front seats for what turns out to be something quite fascinating. It's not only that they're hot when they're kissing, which they are – it turns out that now she can feel something she hasn't been able to feel before.

 

Lincoln's vibrations are distinct and vivid and they hit her like a familiar stream of sound – warmth – touch. She remembers them so well. Grant's are new, slower, exciting – she's trying to study them as much as she can. Lincoln kisses Grant and both of their rhythms change, picking up the pace -she can feel the excitement coming off both of them until the kisses turn easy. And it's like she's suddenly feeling just one person in the room with her – like they have a shared heartbeat, shared breathing and a single wavelength of vibration.

 

For a moment she's not even aware she has pushed herself up on her elbows and is staring at them. It's Lincoln who notices – Grant just wants to keep kissing someone, thank you very much.

 

“I wasn't aware we're that interesting,” he says. Grant comes out of his daze to give her a curious look, a moment before she pulls them both down to her.

 

“You're the most interesting people to me,” she says. She's aware of her own vibrations expanding through her body. She feels the same from them both as they exchange kisses and her heart is beating hard against her ribcage. She wants to sync up with them so badly, but the longer they're kissing, the more their vibrations seem to rush towards something.

 

(Of course they are.)

 

She gasps and pulls back and looks at them. Lincoln is panting above her. Grant is still trying to distract her by kissing her neck. She _is_ going to get used to this.

 

“What was that?” Lincoln asks. She needs a moment to gather her thoughts. Grant isn't helping her.

 

“Oh,” she gives him a cheeky smile. “I was just celebrating,” she says.

 

“Celebrating what?” he's smiling, leaning over her and playfully shoving Grant away. Grant seems content to settle next to her. She can feel the excitement rising within him as she's looking at Lincoln.

 

“Do you two know what happens to your vibrations when you're kissing like you did a moment ago?”

 

That does the trick. Lincoln's jaw drops while he's smiling. “Wait – are you saying -?” He's looking at her and then at Grant and they're all smiling at each other. Daisy can feel his heartbeat and she can feel his joy coming off him in waves. “Really?”

 

“Mhmm, for real,” she says, sitting up on the bed.

 

“But how?” Lincoln asks.

 

“I really have no idea,” she tells him, shrugging and smiling. She is smiling so much, her face almost hurts.

 

“They're coming back,” she says, happily, and looks between two of them and thinks, maybe it simply couldn't happen before. Maybe healing happens when you start to let go. She looks at Lincoln, who _never_ , not for a moment held anything she did against her; and then looks at Grant and _knows_ that all the harm she did to him is forgiven. She holds onto that thought for a moment, thinking how human body can only hold so much – a limited amount of heavy things that weigh you down and tear you apart.

 

And she knows that everything he did to her is forgiven as well. She doesn't know when it happened or how, and maybe that's how it's supposed to be – maybe forgiveness is like snow melting away, and you realize it's gone only when it's really and truly gone.

 

 

But happiness, and care, and fondness _and_ – she pauses – _love_ – for them there is somehow limitless capacity. They can exist and grow and fill you up and you can still have _more_.

 

Lincoln absolutely takes advantage of her pensive moment and soon she's tackled to bed again, and kissed, and she's laughing and Grant is trying to explain what happened except he doesn't understand it either, but for the time being it just doesn't matter.

 

“You're getting better,” Lincoln says and looks at Grant and then his smile grows, even if that didn't seem really possible. “Shouldn't we properly celebrate this?”

 

*

 

“You look beautiful,” Grant says.

 

That's such a strange thing to hear, because she was so used to his self censoring. He's telling her the truth, at least as far as he's concerned. She can read him properly now when she can feel his body radiating excitement and affection. (And desire as well. But he seems to keep such strong lock on that). She looks at him, then at Lincoln and then at her own hands, and can't shake the feeling that everyone in the restaurant is looking at them. She's forgotten how Grant looks in a suit jacket. The tight, prettily knitted beige sweater Lincoln is wearing is giving her less than pure thoughts. The tablecloth has some kind of fine, tiny pattern woven in. Her fingernails look so pretty, now that she's polished them. The jacket the guys gave her for Christmas feels so wonderful on her. (She _feels_ _pretty_ , she realizes. She feels pretty because she took time to take care of herself, curl her hair and put on some make up, but it's more than just that. It's how they look at her. It's the fact that they're here, and how Grant is holding her hand and Lincoln is caressing her fingers and she _doesn't care_ who's looking at them.)

 

They should eat and somehow she's thinking about how they look when they kiss and how much she wants to get them both out of their clothes.

 

“Daisy?” Lincoln asks. He knows her so well, he might guess what's on her mind right now. She tries to smile.

 

“Just... processing,” she says.

 

“What exactly?” he prods further.

 

“It's kind of not safe for public,” she tells him and ducks her head. She, who took off her shirt for him, because he wasn't going to make the first move.

 

“Should we... leave?” Lincoln asks, and she looks up, shaking her head. He's not asking seriously anyway, but this is something she needs to think about.

 

“We ordered food and... I'm hungry,” she says, feeling how warmth is creeping up her cheeks. “And.... I'm...,” she's looking at them, trying to find a way to tell then that the idea of getting naked with them terrifies her.

 

“Skye?” Grant asks, as if he can feel something – and he probably can. There's something about how he uses her old name right now, in a situation where she feels so vulnerable and open. It's like every day she stumbles upon some new issue she needs to tackle, and that, that's making her feel so tired. She looks at Grant and feels how his fingers envelope hers. Then she looks at Lincoln.

 

“I'm just... scared,” she says.

 

“That's... okay,” Grant says. He looks at Lincoln. Daisy thinks she can see some kind of deeper understanding in his eyes. Something with regret mixed in. “Nobody's going to rush you,” he says. Lincoln nods, keeping his eyes on Grant a bit longer. So he noticed it too.

 

“No rush, really,” Lincoln says, taking a hold of Daisy's hand to kiss her knuckles. “We're not going anywhere.”

 

She smiles and breathes in relief she didn't even know she needed.

 

*

 

She takes a long shower after they're home, letting herself enjoy the time she's spent with the guys. Between nice food and Grant's really lame jokes (and Lincoln honestly, genuinely cracking up at them) she managed to relax enough to forget almost everything but the present moment.

 

That, and it was rather nice to be seen with them. She and her two guys. Her amazing, stupidly hot looking guys. There's still a bit of vanity in her, and she lets herself enjoy that too.

 

She's not thinking about much when she walks into Grant's room. Her own room is forgotten at this point, except if she needs extra clothes, or to put away her belongings in order not to cram Grant's space. But his room is where she gravitates, because that's the room with the largest bed and biggest windows and softest pillows. She hasn't slept that well anywhere in years. And she hasn't felt so warm ever. She walks in on a sight that makes her pause – Grant, face down on the bed, shirtless, and Lincoln kneeling over him, kneading his upper back.

 

It's a lot to take in – Grant's semi naked form and Lincoln's bare arms and the memories that come back rushing when she remembers him in his workout gear. (It consisted of too big shirt without sleeves that Mack gave him, and loosely fitting bottoms Daisy managed to find forgotten in some old locker. They might have been Trip's. Or rather, that's what she's been telling herself, because Trip wasn't that tall. But _Grant_ is.) The way Lincoln is doing this, with care and knowledge; the way how intimately it looks.

 

Lincoln is explaining something; some stuff about muscles and the things Grant shouldn't be doing and Grant is just grunting softly in a way Daisy hasn't heard yet, and _that_ makes her whole body aware. She can't not focus on that, process that sensation and its entirely physical nature. And then there's a moment when Lincoln looks up and stops what he's doing, and then Grant does too.

 

“Um,” she smiles. “Hi guys.”

 

Lincoln steps off the bed and Grant sits up and that doesn't make Daisy's situation better in the slightest, because now she can see the front of Grant's chest. He was always ridiculously good looking and he still is, but there are changes she can't help but stare at. His shoulders feel broad and strong and no wonder they do, because he's lifting stuff and doing lots of fishing and that's not easy at all, and there's all the wood chopping, so yeah. He looks strong, really, naturally strong, even though his muscles don't look as pronounced as they did before. He used to work out a lot, even when he was in Vault D – or maybe especially then, to give himself structure and tasks and keep his body ready and fit. The difference is subtle, really, and she notices it only because she knows now how exercise works and what it does to you. (Grant taught her that. May might have continued training her, but everything Grant taught her about exercise, discipline and regular workout – everything proved to be true.) Her eyes fall to his abdomen, and it's a lot less defined, and looking much softer, with a definite layer of body fat – which means he's healthy and he eats well and gets enough rest, and that realization is doing things to her. So many things.

 

That, and the fact that she could step close to him and touch him as she pleases. She realizes she _will_ touch him. Him _and_ Lincoln. She will get to decide when and how. They will let her do it.

 

She remains rooted to her spot instead.

 

“I was just going to -,” she pauses. It's not that they're going to say anything that would make her feel uncomfortable. She just needs a moment because all of this is a bit too much. “Make some tea,” she finally says, because that's the first plausible thing that comes to mind. The guys share a look.

 

“Yeah – good. We were going to, um -,” now it's Grant's turn to pause. He shifts and now she can see his right side. She can see a gunshot scar there, and for a moment she stares because he didn't have that back in the days of Team Bus.

 

Then she realizes she knows how he got it.

 

Lincoln notices what she is looking at. She looks down at her feet.

 

“It's a thing we do,” Lincoln says. “It's, like, our thing.”

 

“Really?” she looks up and now they're watching her with concern.

 

“Yeah,” Lincoln says softly. “It really is.”

 

“Yes,” Grant adds earnestly for her. “And you smell,” he adds, looking at Lincoln.

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yes, really. My back needs that shower. You should come along if you don't want everyone to suffocate because of your lack of hygiene,” Grant says, winking at Daisy and walking out of the room.

 

She catches a glimpse of the wound on his backside, matching the entrance of the bullet she put into him.

 

Lincoln walks up to her and kisses the top of her head before he leaves as well.

 

They leave and because she has nothing better to do, she goes to the kitchen. She might as well make that tea. She needs to do something to get her mind back on track.

 

And what exactly she should think about? She's been sleeping with them in the same bed for two weeks, she has kissed and touched them and now her body is reminding her that it's still very much alive. And then she saw Grant without a shirt, and she saw the scares she gave him and she doesn't know how she _should_ feel.

 

Except she feels. And wants. And she knows they're getting naked in the other room.

 

Screw the tea, she thinks.

 

*

 

She slowly opens the door at the point where Lincoln is telling Grant, for the umpteenth time, how he should be taking care of his right shoulder. He knows Grant isn't really listening, and he knows his attempt to actually take care of himself will be halfassed at best.

 

Daisy opens the bathroom door the moment Grant was about to enter the shower. Lincoln is just about to get rid of his underwear – he sees her look at them quickly, and then he sees her try not to react too much, and he sees Grant freeze in spot, half turned away from her.

 

“I was,” she starts, her eyes skipping to Grant (whom she probably never saw fully undressed. Lincoln understands how distracting that can be.) “I was going to -”

 

She pauses and now she's looking at them, trying to find a way out of the awkward situation. Lincoln can see her blushing too. If he ever heard proper dirty jokes in his life, it was from her. She's not someone who blushes often or lightly.

“Wanna... join us?” he asks softly, careful not to scare her away and trying to imagine what this must be like for her. When he looks at Grant's expression, he has a pretty good idea.

 

He can see her take a deep breath.

 

“Yep – yeah,” she says. “I would like to. If... there's enough room?”

 

“We'll squeeze you in,” Lincoln says with a smile that prompts a smile of her own. He can see Grant hesitating to turn around and fully face her.

 

“I'm getting in,” he says. “And you two should too.” He gives her a grin and before she can take off her shirt and her bra, he enters the shower stall.

 

“Planning on stealing all the warm water?” Lincoln asks, finally getting fully undressed. Daisy is looking at him. Her eyes are just slightly watery. He smiles to tell her that he's here. That he isn't gone. That something familiar she can count on is still there with her.

 

“Yes, if you don't get your asses in here,” Grant says, sounding confident, but Lincoln knows better.

 

He waits for Daisy as she takes off all of her clothes. She's standing before him and he smiles again, warmly, to tell her that she's still beautiful to him. He opens the shower, and offers Daisy an hand and helps her climb in. The water is already running. Grant smooths back his wet hair and looks at them. They all fit inside, but there's a little room to move around. Lincoln smiles at both. Grant is leaning back against the thick, foggy glass and looking at her, almost as if he can't believe she's there. She's trying not to study him too closely, and then she gives it up – Lincoln can see the exactly moment when she does, after which she looks at Lincoln, her look searching for something on his face. He places his hand behind her back and keeps it lightly between her shoulder blades.

 

She moves just a bit closer to Grant. Lincoln can see him holding his breath when she touches him – from his chest her hand slides down to his right side, and gently traces the scar there. She looks up, slowly, and Grant is now giving her steady assuring look and moving the wet strands of hair behind her ear. Lincoln does the same, wanting to tell her he's here, and that she can take her time and just do as she pleases.

 

She puts both of her palms on Grant's sternum and stands on her toes to kiss him. She presses up fully against him. Lincoln just stares because they're so beautiful like this. Grant kisses back with that small, weak sound that Lincoln knows well. They kiss for a little while, after which she turns to kiss Lincoln too. Her sigh after that sounds like relief.

 

Then she slowly grins.

 

“What?” Lincoln asks. He knows this grin too. The playful one.

 

“Well,” she looks at both of them and it's kinda obvious that the situation is inevitably arousing and that neither of the men can hide it. “Wouldn't you two call this a hot shower?” she says. They all laugh, and the tension breaks, and Grant says Lincoln should wash himself, instead of just staring.

 

*

 

Later, they're all in bed, and there is a sort of pensive calm Lincoln didn't experience before. Daisy seems to want to just lay there, snuggled between them, and Grant just wants to hold her. Lincoln lets them be quiet.

 

Then, just before Lincoln is about to fall asleep he hears Daisy's voice.

 

“Grant?”

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

“When you tried to heal my powers,” she starts, shifting a little. “I saw something.”

 

Grant is quiet for awhile. Lincoln braces for what he's about to hear and shifts closer to both of them.

 

“What did you see?” he finally asks. Daisy shifts, from her side where she was turned towards Lincoln, to her back, to finally face Grant.

 

“There was a boy inside some kind of a hole. Or a drain. I couldn't really see him. I just... knew he was there,” she says.

 

_Oh God_ , Lincoln thinks.

 

“He was calling for you,” Daisy says then. Grant is quiet for a moment.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

“Was that... your brother?” Daisy finally asks.

 

Lincoln holds his breath.

 

“Yes,” Grant tells her. Lincoln knows that exact memory. He knows how it feels. He can still feel Grant's guilt as if it was his own.

 

Daisy doesn't ask anything else, but she scoots up to Grant to hug him – with all of her body, and Lincoln pulls himself close, spooning behind Daisy, trying to hug them too.

 


	20. Muscle memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After having a beserker staff related nightmare, Grant needs to blow off the steam - and Daisy and Lincoln are there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at me at all, because I do not understand how we reached twentieth chapter without three of them banging. 
> 
> Your wait is over, though. It's detailed and dirty and contains all the explicit, nsfw, adult themed, graphic warnings you can think of. 
> 
> Enjoy the smut and forgive me the errors.

“You're staring,” Lincoln says. All Grant does is let out a pensive _hmmm_. He doesn't even attempt to move or, in fact, stop staring. “ _Grant_ ,” Lincoln says as he leans closer. Grant is standing next to their pickup, with two bags of groceries at his feet, and he's doing incredibly well at ignoring them in favor of Daisy, who is standing just a few feet away, chatting with some guy who was asking for directions to... somewhere. Lincoln too is fuzzy on the details. Daisy, though, seems invigorated. She's doing better and it's _obvious_. (Love does her good.) Lincoln can see the color in her cheeks, can see several pounds she gained. Her hair isn't as dark and dull, as it used to be.

 

Grant turns and looks at Lincoln. He wants to say something, but he fails. Daisy picks that moment to look at them.

 

Heart eyes all around, thinks Lincoln. Not that he's against it. It's just so _amusing._

 

“You saw her naked and now your brain is permanently broken,” Lincoln teases and to his surprise (or maybe not surprising at all), Grant simply nods.

 

“Yeah,” he says.

 

Now Daisy is staring too. (She's staring at both of them.)

 

“I think the sexual tension here requires urgent diffusing,” Lincoln says, and Grant doesn't even react – that's how smitten he is. (Lincoln can't even think of another word). They load the truck and get in, and Lincoln has no idea _how_ on Earth Grant keeps himself in check as they're driving, but he does. Daisy isn't ready and Grant respects it.)

 

*

 

Later that afternoon he catches Daisy doing literally the same thing. Only she's somewhat less obvious, to Grant at least, because she is safely tucked in two blankets, sitting near the window with a cup of tea in her hands, while he's chopping wood outside. And she is unapologetically looking at him and drinking in his every movement.

 

“Tell me,” Lincoln says, pulling a chair next to her.

 

She seems so far away.

 

“He used to be such hardass,” she says, smiling at some memory long ago. “He made me do pushups and pullups and kicked me out of bed before five am.”

 

“You mean, the stuff you did to me?” Lincoln says.

 

“Ha,” Daisy says. She's still watching, and biting her lower lip. “I thought he was the hottest guy alive,” she says, laughing a little – maybe simply because she's amused, maybe because she's gone a full circle and nothing is stopping her from thinking that again. (She looks happy looking at him, and Lincoln loves it. He knows he's part of that happiness as he leans with his chin against the back of the chair. He's never seen Grant or Daisy this happy, and their contentment bounces off them and warms him up, and he lets it. He plays along. He prods a little bit, because he feels it needs to be done).

 

“Is he?”

 

“Yep,” she says. “Right along with you. Wouldn't get up at five am for anyone else.”

 

“Nice save, Johnson,” he teases.

 

“He's tall dark and handsome, and I think I might have a thing for blond boys too,” she explains.

 

“Lucky me,” he tells her.

 

“Oh yes. Definitely. Lucky you,” she answers. At that point Grant is loading the newly chopped pieces of wood into the cart, to bring it inside. Daisy leaves the tea cup on the floor, standing up and pulling Lincoln by the hand. He stands too, his full height against Daisy's small frame. She's barefoot and she has to stand on her toes to kiss him properly. He thinks how nicely she smells. He thinks how soft her hair is, and how it's getting longer. He can hear the front door opening, he catches a glimpse of Grant's grin as he's getting inside; can see Grant leaving the woolen cap and the jacket and walking towards them. “Hi,” Daisy says, and it's inviting and warm. The joint hug is too, comfortable with undercurrent of tension as they keep exchanging kisses. Finally, Daisy pulls back, panting. Grant bites his lip and smiles. Daisy is looking at him, then at Lincoln, and it's the sexiest thing Lincoln can think of. She murmurs an excuse and goes to the bathroom and Grant sighs. It's not exactly frustration, but the wait.

 

Grant leans forward and kisses Lincoln.

 

“I am old news and I can do now, right?” Lincoln says into the kiss. Grant laughs.

 

*

 

She feels it – when he sits up, shocked awake by the nightmare. It's dark and quiet and without relying on her sight, every other sensation feels amplified. She feels it in his vibrations, and doesn't need an explanation to it, but before she can react, he leaves the bed.

 

When she sits up, Lincoln wakes as well. (It's like three of them are linked.)

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“Grant had a nightmare,” she says.

 

“Did he say anything?”

 

“No,” she relies.

 

“Not good,” Lincoln tells her, getting up.

 

“What do you mean, not good?”

 

“He dreamed about that staff again,” Lincoln says as he looks for a sweater. He pulls on the first garment he manages to grab. Daisy find her own (actually, it's one of male sweaters that doesn't seem to have exact owner and it smells after both of the guys and Daisy loves it). She's pulling it on as they both quietly pad into kitchen, where they find Grant, hunched over the counter.

 

“How do you know?” she asks.

 

“I just do,” Lincoln tells her.

 

There's something about how Grant is standing there, hunched and all tense, that's incredibly familiar to her. She feels fear and she feels frustration, remembering how she, Jemma and Fitz watched him suffer and couldn't do anything to help him. She remembers offering the only kind of help she knew – to talk – and how he refused her. She didn't understand.

 

But now she knows.

 

Saying something means calling it by the name. It means giving it an existence and letting it free into the world where it cannot stay hidden or be ignored any more. You have to deal with it.

 

She has a shitton of things she doesn't want to deal with yet.

 

She looks at Lincoln. There's determination, tingling in her fingertips. This time she will do something. Lincoln nods at her. She takes a deep breath and comes close to Grant.

 

( _I will never give you what you want._ )

 

“Hey,” she says. That old moment plays out in her head when she puts her hand, feather light, atop his forearm. He looks up and at her. She smiles. “Bad dream?”

 

It takes him a beat to reply. “Yeah. You could call it that,” he says.

 

“I know,” she whispers back.

 

He manages to smile. The tension in his arms seems to slowly uncoil. He looks at Lincoln.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Let's just sit down? Take a breath?”

 

Grant nods and follows almost meekly, and soon they sit on the couch, with Grant in the middle. He leans back heavily and looks at the ceiling. Daisy observes the shadows hanging around the room, created by the light Lincoln had left on behind them.

 

They let Grant stare and rest for awhile. Daisy feels his tension coming back, though – it starts with him rubbing his forehead and leaning forward, elbows resting on the knees.

 

This way they cannot see his face, she thinks.

 

He's hiding, she realizes.

 

And she knows, he's not hiding because he's scared.

 

“Grant,” she prods softly, leaning slightly forward and starting to rub his back. He grunts and lets her run her palm along his spine. He's not relaxing this time around. “Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”

 

He does. He leans back enough so she can see him.

 

“I'm... sorry,” he says. She sighs – she is honestly done with him apologizing, but she also knows he will probably keep doing it. Maybe not quite as often as he still seems to do.

 

“For what?” she asks. She wants to hear it. And she wants to address it, whatever it is. And she wants to be done with that issue, if it's possible.

 

The look he gives her is something she can't quite describe, but it reminds her at the way he looked at her before their first kiss – with fondness and longing and something akin to regret. He looks at her like she is some kind of dream. Something he can almost reach, but maybe he shouldn't.

 

She understands that look so much better now; but she still feels the dreamy hope and wonders if he can see the echoes of starry eyed look in her eyes.

 

“I should have taken you up on that offer. When... when you wanted to talk. I was just afraid I would...”

 

He pauses, licks his lips and smiles. She catches how his eyes pause at her lips.

 

“That you would sleep with me?” she asks.

 

He lets out a breath of relief and looks at her. His smile is almost shy. She feels something between them shift and she feels she's standing at the precipice – they all are – and that she has the power to keep the precious balance they've created safe; or to disrupt it, with unforeseen consequences.

 

She looks at Lincoln. The steady look in his eyes gives her confidence. She takes Grants hand, to loop her fingers with his.

 

“Would you like to sleep with me?” she asks. He looks at their hands for a moment.

 

“I meant it when I said it, Skye... I am not a good man,” he tells her.

 

She swallows and takes a quiet breath knowing that everything depends on every word she'll tell him, the way she'll look at him, so she makes sure to feel every beat of her nervous heart that's hammering its way against her ribcage. She takes him gently by the chin and lifts his face up. Their eyes meet.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, you are. Because you're not only your actions and you're not only your past. You're more than just sum of your own misery, Grant. And so am I, so is Lincoln,” she says. He keeps looking at her, and that's good, that's very good. Lincoln puts his hand on Grant's shoulder and keeps it there. “So, now after we've cleared that... would you like to do something about how you feel?” she asks, and at that point her throat is tight, and her heart seems to have climbed straight into her throat. Her cheeks are burning and she realizes she's wet between her legs.

 

“... yes,” he finally says.

 

Daisy takes it as the answer she was hoping for.

 

She leans forward, deliberately, and kisses him. She kisses him once, twice, third time; patiently trying to coax his lips apart. When he gives in she scoots even closer, to slide her palms along his thighs and find the hardness between them. She swallows his moan and he leans back against the couch, glassy eyed.

 

“Let's take this to the bed, shall we?” she suggests. She can see Lincoln licking his lips a moment before Grant leans forward and kisses her. She remembers this kind of kissing, the desperate intensity, the pleading; all wrapped in a desperate press of his lips. Like he wants to convince her. He kisses her until his expression almost looses all edge and he lets her take him by the hand. They stand up and she offers Lincoln her opened palm. He takes her hand and smiles.

 

“Ready?” he asks her, and then looks at Grant.

 

“Yes,” she says. She can somehow feel that Grant agrees on that, too. Lincoln grins broadly.

 

“Let me turn up the heating,” he says and she can see Grant loosening up at the mention of bland reality.

 

“Ah, yeah, you're probably right about that,” he says. Lincoln is back in a moment. Daisy can hear the hum of the heating system.

 

“It's not my ass that freezes almost instantly,” Lincoln says. Daisy looks at them as they both take her hands – and so they walk back to the bedroom.

 

“Maybe we can warm up his ass?” Daisy says, feeling bold and looking at Lincoln, as she pulls Grant closer. Lincoln nods. They're on the same page.

 

“Daisy,” Grant starts and she pokes the middle of his chest.

 

“No more apologies,” she says.

 

“Okay,” he breathes.

 

“I want to take care of you,” she tells him as she looks down at her hand holding his. His fingers were never elegant or pretty. Still, she liked them. She liked all of him, and she could never make herself stop. “Let us take care of you,” she says as she lifts his hand, opens his palm and kisses it.

 

He stares at her. He looks breathless, and she feels starry eyed. Just like before. That's when Lincoln kisses the top of her head, and then he kisses Grant's lips. Daisy feels as if light exploded inside of her. The distraction that reality created is gone as she stares at them kissing – there's nothing subtle about it. She practically feels both of them getting turned on, just as she can feel herself.

 

She's not sure whom she grabs or where. She's standing on her toes, being kissed. That's all she knows. Someone places a hand on her butt and she moans. Finally, she takes a breath and takes a look to determine which man is which – and she knows Grant is kissing down her neck in a way that makes her want to melt and Lincoln is giving her teasing little kisses that make her smile and she's starting to tug at their clothes.

 

They're naked faster than she expects, with Lincoln behind her back, kissing her and quietly supporting everything she wants to do. Grant just stares at her, not sure where to touch or what to do with himself.

 

If she is honest with herself, she's not sure either. This is different than the shower – this is where she's allowed to do stuff to him, and suddenly she doesn't know where to start. She wants to do everything. There's a pang in her chest when she realizes that this is the chance she thought she'd never get; ever again. That she still has another try to do things she dreamed about. Like, touch his abs and watch them move as her finger trails from his navel and down. She can hear him gasp softly, lean forward and kiss his chest, while Lincoln is kneading her butt and kissing her neck. She wraps her hand around Grant and leans back against Lincoln's chest when his fingers enter her and they stay that way for awhile; Lincoln pushing his fingers in and out of her as she lets Grant push his tongue in her mouth.

 

They end up on the bed then, her on her back, kissing Lincoln and spreading her legs for Grant. He eats her out for a while (she's clutching the sheet and moaning into Lincoln's mouth), and then pulls away. He's glassy eyed when he moves over her, and God, he's so big, and they're finally _here_. She takes his face in her hands, smiles, pulls him close to kiss him. She closes his eyes, just like she did the first time, and he's ready to kiss her back as ever. And then. Then she feels him entering her as they stare at each other, not even breathing. He kisses her as he attempts to move. She winds her arms around his neck.

 

“Finally,” she breathes against his skin and feels the sound that he makes.

 

“Daisy,” he lifts his head, holding himself over her, trying out how to move, and honestly, she doesn't care as long as he _does_ move. He kneels, pulling her body into his lap. Her heart is racing when Lincoln kisses her and then Grant.

 

“She likes it like this,” Lincoln says, lifting one of her legs over Grant's shoulder. Daisy gasps when the angle changes. She watches as guys kiss, as Grant wraps his hand around Lincoln; she watches their bodies as they all move in the joint effort of lovemaking. Grant turns to her then, turning his head to kiss the inside of her ankle and putting his hand between her legs to rub her.

 

She closes her eyes. Her body feels like _fireworks_ going off, as she comes with a scream.

 

She has no idea how long it takes her to come off her high, but when she does, Grant is above her again, moving slow and deep and making her moan.

 

“Yes,” she says, because he seems to search something on her face. She touches his cheek and he turns his face into her palm, his body pushing faster into hers. It looks like he's struggling as he chases his own release, gasping and shaking and saying incoherent things. She tells him how good he feels, how turned on she is, how much she loves doing this with him, with two of them. Lincoln kneels behind Grant and he seems to reach between his legs – Daisy can't see what is it exactly that he does, but it works – Grant buries his face into her shoulder and comes, her skin masking his gasps.

 

She's drowsy and content and warm as she stretches in the middle of the bed. Next to her, Lincoln crawls over Grant. They grin at each other. Daisy watches them as they start to kiss, Grant still panting and Lincoln being gentle. She watches as the kisses change, and she watches as Grant reaches for the nightstand to pull a drawer open. Lincoln then kneels, straddling Grant's thighs. He leans towards the drawer, finds a condom; he opens it and rolls it on. Daisy slides to her side to watch Lincoln pour lubricant onto his palm.

 

Her body is tingling because of the way Grant is laying there, with loose limbs and open expression; because of Lincoln's tone as he asks Grant if he's ready. She curls into herself, knees against her breasts, her cunt pulsing as Lincoln slowly joins his and Grant's bodies.

 

(She tried to imagine this, her guys fucking like this, but her imagination cannot possibly hold the candle to reality – how Grant closes his eyes, and how Lincoln watches him; how carefully he moves until he's sure it's okay to go harder.

 

How Grant _asks_ for it.)

 

Lincoln kneels. The way his body moves, the way he's rubbing Grant's thighs and telling him it's okay, and he doesn't need to be _in control_ speaks volumes. Grant is moaning so loudly, his dick straining hard and his arms on either side of his pillow. There _had_ to be more nightmares about the staff, more fucks like this, with Lincoln taking care of Grant, and Grant being able to just _let go_. Daisy pulls herself up onto her knees. She still feels the fuck from ten minutes ago when she touches Grant's hand. He opens his eyes.

 

She wants to give him a chance to let go. She wants to give him all the chances and make sure he's safe. That nobody hurts him. That he can always be this open.

 

She touches Lincoln's face and now he's looking at her too. She kisses him slowly before she straddles Grant as well.

 

“Skye,” Grant gasps as she's trying to angle her body above him. She smiles. It's good to hear that name, she thinks. _Her_ name, that's just for them. She sinks over him as Lincoln slows down.

 

She honestly doesn't know how long it lasts as she and Lincoln move in unison and Grant just pleads, eyes tightly shut as he tries to hold on. Lincoln plays with her breasts and reaches between her legs and God, he still knows her so well that it only takes his fingers and a bite to her earlobe and Grant moaning beneath them. She comes again, her head back, heavily leaning against Lincoln's chest. Grant grunts, holding onto her hips and going still beneath her. A moment later she can feel Lincoln pulling out and moving away. She drapes herself across Grant's body as Lincoln goes to the bathroom to clean up.

 

She's almost asleep when she feels his hands on her ass.

 

“Giving up on me already?” he teases. His hands are somewhat cold from the water. Daisy grunts as he kneads her ass and slides his dick against her butt cheeks.

 

“Nope,” she says, “Just a bit tired.”

 

She can hear him chuckle. Grant teases her with fingers lightly skimming along her spine. “Too tired for another round?” That seems to wake her up more than handfuls of her butt being grabbed.

 

“Okay,” she says. She looks over her shoulder at Lincoln. “But I want to watch you.”

 

She rolls off Grant and onto her back again. It's Lincoln that's above her this time, and when they kiss, when she puts her hands on his scruffy cheeks everything seems to click back in place.

 

“Oh Daisy,” he says, his forehead against hers as he slides in effortlessly. “I've missed you _so much_.”

 

“ _I know_ ,” she tells him.

 

And it's _just like she remembers_. He's gentle and playful and teasing and she talks dirty, and then Grant – oh Grant – he's kissing and touching and teasing both of them. She's so tired, so spent, but still the fuck goes on and on and on; until Grant rolls her nipple with his tongue and Lincoln rubs her between her legs, his dick deep inside of her. The orgasm blinds her as her hips lift off the bed. She's barely aware of Lincoln coming too. She feels as if she's coming for minutes – and finally, when she comes back to herself, she's ready to drown in two of them as they wrap themselves around her.

 

“I loved that,” she's barely able to say. “Let's do that again.”

 


	21. Clear view

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning (and the day) _after_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the fluff while it lasts. DUN DUN DUN.

*

 

“You _want to_ get up,” he teases. “I know you wanna get up.”

 

“Lies and misconstructions,” Daisy says, too lazy to actually move away out of Lincoln's reach. He tickles her again and she tries to tickle back. It doesn't bother him at all.

 

“Ha ha, you're not addicted to coffee at all,” he says, pulling her closer. He's still shirtless. She made herself get up and get dressed during the night but Lincoln had slept without a shirt on. Not that she minds the view.... but she's worried about his health. He shouldn't get a cold. Still, he is so miraculously warm and that makes her decision to get up and sneak into the kitchen all the harder.

 

She kisses him, with a palm splayed against his chest. She feels his vibrations again – and it's like reconnecting on a level that feels as fundamental as breathing. Almost like she has found a piece that's been missing. “Go on,” he says, “I'm not going anywhere. And I'm sure Grant will appreciate your company.”

 

It's how he says that, that makes her finally move – the way he says Grant's name, the way he's looking at her, the absolute freedom to do whatever she pleases as she hears and sees it all. Daisy leaves the covers, and Lincoln among them, she pulls on his sweater and it reaches to the middle of his thighs while the sleeves go well over her hands.

 

“Bring me coffee,” he's saying as she's going out of the room.

 

“Geez,” she pokes her head back inside. “I had no idea you're so _lazy_.”

 

He shrugs. “Grant spoiled me,” he says. Daisy snickers and leaves.

 

Few years ago she would have doubted Grant was capable or willing to spoil anyone, but now she can actually imagine it. And she doubts Lincoln is actually hard to spoil. And it's interesting to think all of it, since these are things they brought out of one another and she had no idea about any of it before.

 

She pauses at the kitchen door. There's something so cute and melancholic about Grant sitting at a dining table, with a coffee cup in his hand and a newspaper. (It's probably old newspaper. Which would be purely adorable if she didn't remember him doing the same thing at the Bus. Being a good spy means memorizing lot of information.)

 

“I've done it too, you know,” she says. He looks up at her, his expression confused. She needs to be close to him, so she walks over. “When I ….ran away. I … did what you taught me to,” she says. He offers her a hand and she takes it. For some reason she feels small, looking at him and hoping to earn an approval; and she wonders how a single look or a gesture can bring her back so far in the past. How can he make her an other person? She lets hi pull her close and then she chooses to sit on his lap. He looks at her with adoration.

 

“I knew you'd be better than me,” he says.

 

“Oh please,” she snorts a little and nuzzles his nose.

 

“What? It's true,” he affirms and she can almost feel his smile.

 

“Well,” she's saying as her hands make their way up his arms. “Hello lover,” she's using the cheesiest tone she can come up with and surely, that wins her a look of fondness and affection. There's something old and weary in his eyes, yet amused by her. She used to live for that look.

The light touch between their faces becomes a kiss, only this time it's lazy and relaxed. She has touched him. Some part of her has finally found its place.

 

“Hey yourself,” he says, as his hands splay across her back.

 

“Do you have coffee for me?”

 

“I always have coffee for you,” he tells her as he keeps kissing her. God, he's so cuddly. He can't stop touching her. She opens her mouth to his lips and tastes the coffee she's been asking for.

 

“How about for that guy waiting for us in our bedroom?” she asks. Grant laughs a bit.

 

“Too lazy to get up?”

 

“He claims it's all your fault,” she tells him, placing her hand in the middle of his chest.

 

“It might be,” Grant squints at her. “Let's go get him coffee?”

 

She lets Grant bring all the coffee cups. Lincoln is pretending to doze off – but once they're back in the room he opens up his eyes and stretches like a cat. Daisy gets rid of his sweater, and crawls back to her spot, waiting for Grant to settle at her side.

 

“What took you so long?” Lincoln asks, but instead for coffee he reaches for Daisy. The way he kisses her contains definite intent – and not that she's against it, she's just amused. “Did you do stuff without me?”

 

“What stuff?” Grant asks as he playfully nudges Lincoln aside, just enough to kiss Daisy himself.

 

“Mmm,” she says. “So what now? I won't even get my coffee?” she asks as their hands begin to wander under her clothes and Lincoln is kissing her neck. She lets them do this for a bit and then pulls off her shirt.

 

“I'll make you other coffee,” Lincoln says, staring at her breasts. She bends her knees and lifts her hips a little, to signal what she wants him to do.

 

“Get to work, then,” she says.

 

“Are you in a hurry?” he asks her, pulling her pajama pants and her underwear away, and just like that she's naked again.

 

“I don't like to be kept waiting,” she tells him, reaching to grab his hair and push his head between her legs.

 

*

 

A couple of hours later she finds Grant at the dining table again. He's squinting at the newspaper and Lincoln is rummaging through kitchen cupboards, looking for something. Daisy sits across from Grant, still feeling content and utterly spent when Lincoln sighs.

 

“Seriously Ward,” he says. Grant gives him this unimpressed, no-comment-allowed kind of look that Daisy remembers so well.

 

“What?,” she asks.

 

“Knock it off,” Grant says even as Lincoln opens his mouth to speak.

 

“No, seriously, you two. What? What's up?”

 

“He needs glasses,” Lincoln says, exasperated.

 

“I _don't_ need glasses,” Grant answers. Daisy can almost sense the longevity of this debate.

 

“No, suuure you don't. You're squinting at stuff you read, you're squinting at TV and traffic signs.... something will smack you across the face really soon,” Lincoln says, huffing in a way that gives Daisy an idea that this issue, actually, makes him feel upset.

 

“Lincoln,” Grant says in a deadpan tone. Daisy can practically see the hot air going out of Lincoln's ears. Before he can say anything, she's getting up.

 

“No, you know what, Lincoln? Just let him squint.” She takes his hand in both of hers and starts pulling him with her.

 

“But -,” he starts, somewhat confused and indignant and still softened by Daisy's gesture.

 

“No buts. He's stubborn as a mule. You know that,” she says and winks when Grant can't see her. Lincoln just looks at her, not delighted with the whole deal at all, but he still lets her drag him away.

 

She does drag him out of the kitchen and then upstairs and stops only when she's sure they're out of Grant's earshot.

 

“What was that about?” she asks.

 

“I think – I am _pretty certain_ he needs glasses. Why did you drag me away?”

 

“Because I didn't want to watch you fight after three of us had all that lovely sex earlier,” she says. Mention of sex manages to make him smile. He will obviously never not be affected by the fact that they get to have sex. “I mean, it's okay when it's other way around,” she continues, pulling him closer and pressing herself against him, and, when she thinks about it, her old room is, like, few steps away. And she's _thisclose_ to getting wet again.

 

“Well, that's what our first sex was like,” he says, contently grinning.

 

“Our first sex was awesome,” she says, staring at his lips as his face nears hers. She doesn't bother resisting, but then she has to fight to stop kissing him, because if she doesn't, this conversation will be cut short and she won't get to tell him what she intended to.

 

“So,” she's panting, “he needs glasses?”

 

“Yes,” Lincoln rubs his face against hers. “He's so goddamn stubborn about it. He won't go get his eyesight checked, and I am seriously worried... what if he doesn't notice a car coming towards him at the time?”

 

Daisy can sense his worry. He's like a too wound string, feeling too tense and completely off. She hugs him around the waist and presses her face against his chest.

 

“We're talking about _Mister–I–Go–In–Alone– And–Do–It-All–By–Myself_ ,” she says. “What goddamn glasses? He thinks he is indestructible. He thinks he _has to be_ indestructible.”

 

“But that's bullshit. And it's an attitude that can harm him -”

 

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Daisy says. “Listen... let me try to talk him into this. Okay?”

 

He pulls back to look at her. She's loving the way he's holding her face in his hands, and she's loving the way he's searching her eyes until he finds something that seems to chase his worries away.

 

“Okay,” he says. They seal their deal with a much softer kiss.

 

 

*

 

She finds Grant wrapped up in what she suspects is self loathing. He's chopping wood a tad bit too vigorously, and they're already stocked. The fact that he's so worked up about this is just painfully telling. He's scared. She knows he's not scared of glasses, but probably of what they're symbolizing to him.

 

“You look hot in glasses,” she says. She might as well make this simple. He just huffs. “I'm serious,” she adds.

 

“I don't _need_ glasses,” he insists, avoiding to look straight at her.

 

“Ooooo -kay,” she says, making her tone soft and teasing. “But you can check it out, just in case?”

 

He sighs and puts the ax down. She cal literally see him trying to close off. Thing is, his old walls aren't that tight any more. She has a feeling he and Lincoln had a few fights about this already and she can only imagine how exhausting that was for both of them. And how much it had to hurt too.

 

“Grant,” she says. “I can totally tease you into compliance, you know that?” she says and he's shaking his head and trying not to smile.

 

“I... I really don't need that, Skye. I'm fine.”

 

“Yeah... I know you are... _Robot_.”

 

This time he does smile, but he's still not looking at her. “You did that on purpose, didn't you?”

 

“What? I totally did not. You slipped first,” she says. “Why don't you tell me what's actually troubling you?” she asks. He does look at her then.

 

“I... um,” he pauses. It's a weird pause. “I don't actually know.”

 

“Oh,” she says. Oh this is even worse. He _doesn't know_ what's the problem. He's still a guy who prefers the trouble he can punch in the face, and this time he doesn't even know what's troubling him about this. “Well. Lincoln only wants you to do something that might save you a lot of trouble. He means well.”

 

“I know,” he says. He leaves the wood and moves to the porch, leaning comfortable onto the heavy wooden railing.

 

“Why are you so... opposed to it?” she asks, carefully choosing her words.

 

“I guess... I feel useless. It makes me feel useless,” he says quietly.

 

Daisy knows better than to jump at his words and try to dissuade him. Long time ago, she might have tried that, but only in the beginning. Even then, after she got to know the quiet, stoic man he was trying to be, she realized that platitudes didn't help. Words were her magic and it seemed words couldn't do much for him.

 

She knew now he learned long time ago words were mostly useless.

 

She comes close, really close, until she's leaning against him.

 

“I'm sure he didn't mean it like that,” she says, sneaking her hand through the crook of his arm. Grant nods.

 

“I know that. And at the same time... it's...,” he pauses, looking ahead and searching the snowy landscape around them, like the answer might be somewhere in there. Daisy lets him, staring ahead as well, letting the time pass and the stillness of nature to lull her in. And then he speaks. “John needed a walking cane. Sometimes a crutch,” he says. It takes her just a moment to process and realize whom he's talking about. Before she can say anything he elaborates further. “The injury he sustained, the mechanic parts that were keeping him functional – not healthy, because he wasn't healthy – it all started coming apart. And when it did...”

 

She takes a deep breath and tells herself that she should stay calm. Mentioning Garrett (and calling him 'John') makes her feel furious, but not because of Hydra. It's not how it used to be. She doesn't think Grant is his obedient dog any more. She feels so much more furious now because she knows the reality.

 

“Grant,” she says, looking up at him. “Why do you... why are you comparing yourself to him?”

 

“Well, I... I died, didn't I?” he says, and in his voice she can feel fear.

 

She keeps looking at him and he is just staring ahead. She nudges him gently until he does look at her and she observes his face. It's clean shaven, with the same high cheek bones and warm eyes full of concern. “What he and you went through was very different,” she says. For the first time, she wishes that Jemma was here, that both she and Fitz were here and could help her explain what she means. “Look, I'm not Fitzsimmons, but I think they'd agree,” she says and she sees the melancholy and sorrow and the wistful expression crossing his face at the mention of the other two. “He went through something invasive. But it was different kind of invasive than yours. Hive.... didn't put metal parts in you. He didn't make you a half machine, or something. He _fixed you_ instead. He also used you... but he fixed your body, permanently.”

 

“Not all of it, it seems,” he says. “Or maybe... maybe it's just falling apart?”

 

Daisy shakes her head. “He left your scars too. He fixed what kept you from... well. From being alive.”

 

“Good, uh. Good point.”

 

She nods.

 

“This conversation is starting to become weird,” he says. He's looking for a way out, but she also knows he feels relieved. She can sense it.

 

“I agree,” she says.

 

“I probably need goddamn glasses, though,” he tells her.

 

She nods.

 

“Yep. And you really look hot in them.”

 

 

 


	22. Rescue me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about glasses, suits, teasing and saying magical words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there folks. This story is almost done, and I'm trying to do everything in my power to finish it up before this year runs out. 
> 
> I've been writing this for a whole year now, which is a miracle when it comes to me. I usually lose interest and inspiration for WIPs, but somehow this one stuck with me. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad that it did. I loved working on it, I still do, even though there's some RL stuff that's literally draining me dry and I'm almost constantly tired - so if you're still reading this, thank you. it means the world to me because this story is special and unique to me in so many ways. 
> 
> See you in the next chapter which could be the last one and will hopefully be the closure this story needs and deserves. (And after that there are still companion stories in this verse that I want to write. Hopefully there are still people who want to read them). 
> 
> Thank you for reading and the feedback, it matters to me more than I can possibly say.

*

 

 

Grant stares at the object sitting on the table in front of him while his meal is getting cold. He's ignoring the hunger and focusing on the unpleasant feeling inside of him that the glasses he picked up half an hour ago are now bringing up; and he has no idea what to do about it all.

 

He was used to not dealing with problems like these. Things he couldn't figure out, but ultimately wouldn't cause him trouble were put away into the trash bin at the virtual bottom of his mind. He'd lock it all down and once all the troubling things were safely removed, he could go about his business as usual.

 

But not any more.

 

Healing Lincoln meant sharing himself with Lincoln. Once the lock on his thoughts, feelings and past deeds was open there was no way of closing it again.

 

He turns the glasses over in his hand again, reluctant to put it on – despite the fact that the world around him looks much clearer when he does. It's a model very similar to the one Skye had redesigned, back in her early SHIELD days. Among all the models he tried on that one makes him feel the least awkward.

 

Maybe it's because it feels familiar.

 

Maybe he feels so awkward and unsettled because it feels familiar.

 

Unable to decide what to think about it or how to feel, he begins eating his burger and fries. Or rather trying to eat. That's when Daisy arrives.

 

“Oh, um,” she starts as she sits across from him. “Did that burger personally offend you?”

 

He just gives her a confused look. He might realize he looks ridiculous, with open mouth and the burger half on the way to reach it. “Is it that bad?”

 

“It's not bad,” he says.

 

“But?” she offers, and he watches her as she unbuttons her jacket and starts taking off layers of clothing. The mall and the restaurant are warm and she had been outside, walking for good twenty minutes. He's looking at her when she spots the glasses. “Oh,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“You got them,” she tells him, pulling her hair into a small ponytail and comfortably leaning forward. “Why aren't you wearing them?”

 

He puts the food down and takes a napkin to wipe his fingers. He looks left and right – there’s just a bunch of people minding their own business, which is something he needs to re-check and double check every once in awhile. He needs to ground himself in the reality where there isn't anyone who's after him.

 

“Grant?” she asks, her smile faltering. People he cares about are safe. It seems she's picking up on his mood quickly, and he knows it's utterly futile to try to convince her nothing is wrong. She and Lincoln can see right through him. It's both relieving and terrifying.

 

“It just feels weird,” he says.

 

“For your eyes?” she asks.

 

“Not exactly,” he tells her.

 

She gives him a pensive stare for a moment. Then she gets up and slides onto the wide seat next to him, extending her hand. “Give them to me,” she says.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“M-hmm,” she nods, teasingly wiggling her fingers. He indulges her, because it's impossible for him not to. She takes the glasses, opens them, inspects the sleek dark frame and appreciatively nods. Then she slides it carefully onto his nose, and he lets her.

 

He has to blink several times, as the image of her face comes into focus, along with everything else. The thing is, he needs the glasses. His eyes are just not as sharp as they used to be.

 

But then, she smiles at him. In her smile he sees acceptance and trust and recognition – he sees _love_.

 

And it's not that he doesn't feel loved. Lincoln loves him. Has been, for quite awhile. But this – seeing that she does too, even though she's not expressing it with words – he thinks something inside him clicks back into place.

 

“Well, I don't think you look awkward at all,” she says, oblivious to his thoughts.

 

“No?” he manages.

 

“Nope,” she decides, sliding closer and kissing him, intentionally pushing his glasses with her nose so she could fix them after. “Wait until Lincoln sees you.”

 

 

*

 

Predictably, Lincoln reacts. There's a huge grin on his face and unabashed appreciation in his eyes. Daisy is quite familiar with that look.

 

“Wow,” Lincoln says, leaving the bowl with unfinished cake inside, waiting somewhat impatiently until both of them are out of their jackets and other outerwear. “That's... _something_ ,” he says, staring at Grant.

 

“Just _something_?” Daisy teases. She's not sure which one is more amusing to her – Lincoln who is probably two steps away from getting horny or Grant, who is completely unable to realize it. “Have you ever seen him in a suit?”

 

“Nope,” Lincoln says. He's standing by the kitchen counter, forcing himself to look as if he's _patiently_ waiting for Grant to properly come inside. Grant seems apprehensive, looking between the two like he's misplaced something. Daisy glances at Lincoln trying to somehow telegraph that he should drop the act. That Grant needs reassurance.

 

“Well, you totally should. He's super handsome in it,” she says and winks, nearing Grant and taking him by the hand. She drags him to Lincoln.

 

“I believe it,” Lincoln answers, letting her take his other hand. This way, she's bridging the gap between two of them. Grant ducks his head. “Hey, you,” Lincoln says then softly. “It wasn't so bad, right?”

 

“It wasn't,” Grant agrees, looking up.

 

“I'm sorry if I was an asshole,” Lincoln says. Grant nods and shrugs. Right. They're _guys_. It doesn't get much subtler than this, but it's an apology and acknowledgment, _and_ an expression of care.

 

“So,” Daisy says, still holding their hands. “Who wants to have sex?”

 

  
*

 

A little while later, the only person wearing something is Grant – and the thing he's wearing are the glasses. He finally looks relaxed, and Lincoln looks like he could do another round of everything, but Daisy's day was extremely long. She knows that guys could burn away the remaining anxious energy without her, but they're choosing not to, and she knows why they're opting for that. She just lets herself drift off while enjoying their quiet attention.

 

“What?” Lincoln's question brings her out of her thoughts.

 

“Oh, nothing. I just... thought how I didn't expect you two, at all.”

 

“What do you mean?” Grant asks, propping his face up with his palm. Daisy thinks back of that day she'd met him. _Agent Toolbag._ She remembers exactly how she eyed the suit he was wearing and wondered what was underneath. (And now she was seeing _just that_. How _wonderful_.)

 

“I just thought of that day when you put a paper bag on my head,” she says and settles on her back so she could see both of them. She looks at Lincoln to clarify. “That's how I met him. He and Coulson broke into my van and kidnapped me.”

 

Lincoln's jaw drops just slightly. “Are you serious?”

 

“They were nice kidnappers,” she jokes. “Although Ward's suit was a bit too tight-”

 

Grant huffs. “It was custom tailored,” he argues.

 

“Oh please. Custom tailored by some SHIELD commissioned person. You need a proper suit -”

 

“Nah,” he says. He's smiling contently. Daisy thinks she will never get tired of seeing that smile. “Why would I need a suit here?”

 

“To take it off, obviously,” Lincoln provides helpfully.

 

“Is that why I was nearly naked back in Afterlife?” Daisy interrupts.

 

“What?” Grant asks, an amused grin on his face.

 

“ _Hey_ ,” Lincoln protests,” that was part of the procedure. I couldn't place all those sensors on you if you had your clothes on,” he says.

 

“She was naked?” Grant asks teasingly.

 

“ _Almost_ naked,” Daisy points out. “I was strategically covered by strips of cotton fabric and literally unable to move. Admit it, it was kinda creepy,” she tells Lincoln. “And those were huge ass creepy needles, not sensors,” she huffs.

 

“Well,” he gives her a sheepish look. “I'm very sorry if it was uncomfortable. But it was necessary,”

 

“Apology accepted,” she smiles. “I know it was necessary. But I have a question now. _How_ exactly did two of you meet?” she asks. Lincoln glances at Grant.

 

“He was laying face down in the dirt,” Grant says.

 

“What a romantic description,” Lincoln teases.

“Actually,” Daisy says slowly, “I think two of you met before. 'Met' being a relative term -”

 

“What do you mean?” Lincoln asks. “I don't remember meeting Grant -”

 

“Because you were unconscious. Ish? And on the floor. And we were after Hydra.”

 

“Oh wait,” Grant says narrowing his eyes and looking at her. “ _That_ was him?”

 

“What – what are you two talking about?”

 

“That time when Hydra kidnapped you and Mike. Grant helped us save you,” Daisy says looking affectionately at Lincoln and then back at Grant. Lincoln gives them both a surprised look, but he seems to focus on Grant.

 

“And you _don't_ remember me?” Lincoln teases.

 

“Well, I did have a giant alien parasite borrow my brain in the meantime. It was shaken up just a bit,” Grant says smartly. Lincoln just grins. “My brain suffered, y'know.”

 

“I like your brain,” Lincoln says. “It's kinda sexy.”

 

Daisy pretends to roll her eyes.

 

“I think you two should get a room,” she informs.

 

“I think we already got that sorted out,” Lincoln says and starts to tickle her.

 

“Hands off,” she says, and when he continues to poke her sides, she tries to swat his hands away. It all ends with a giggling fit and Daisy has to plead with him to stop because she needs to breathe. “Look, mister,” she says. “I am going to get up, go to the kitchen and make some food. Like, for instance, those brownies you left unfinished and now I can't just sit and eat them. How rude of you. And you two just made me really hungry.”

 

“You don't have to be hungry,”Lincoln says cheekily, raising on his elbows and giving her a view of his chest. His _wonderful_ chest. “We're right here.”

 

“Not into cannibalism yet, Campbell,” She's picking up her clothes from around the floor. They have to stop throwing it all over the place every damn time. “ Also, you're kinda skinny,” she manages to say before Lincoln throws Grant's shirt right into her face. “Ooooh. I needed just that,” she lets him know, pulling the clothes on quickly.

 

“Thanks man, I can go around naked, right?” Grant pretends to complain.

 

“Who told you you're supposed to go anywhere?” Lincoln tells him. Daisy makes herself leave the room before she ends up dragged into a mock pillow fight between the two.

 

*

 

The door closes and Grant surrenders the fight. He doesn't have it in him, to joke around and tease when he still feels tense and wound up. He falls back onto his pillow and pulls the blankets all the way up. Lincoln seems to settle down too, and slowly he goes all still and quiet as if he can read Grant's mind. Soon there are only faint sounds coming from the kitchen; something that might be Daisy singing while she's working, and the sound of Lincoln breathing next to him.

 

And this... it's good. It's almost like it used to be, before. Grant thinks about that with fondness realizing that he does sometimes miss exclusively quiet moments where it's only him and Lincoln, and the rest of the world is just a quiet buzz, far away. But he wouldn't change it back, ever.

 

“What?” Lincoln asks curiously, with a small smile as he settles on his side, facing Grant. He looks all soft and light, covered with sunshine streaming through the window. It's caught in his hair. Grant enjoys the view.

 

“I'm bad... with complex things,” Grant shrugs. Lincoln smiles slowly, and his eyes look surprised.

 

“You're bad with complex things? You?”

 

Grant tries to settle deeper into his pillow, realizing that he's actually trying to hide, and that's not something he's supposed to do. He knows he can trust Lincoln. It's just.... he's scared. He's not sure of what.

 

He still tries to explain because that's what being around Lincoln has taught him – the words can set you free. When you name a thing, it stops holding power over you.

 

“You, Daisy and me,” he starts and pauses, trying to focus. It's actually really simple. “I'm just... afraid I'll hurt both of you,” he says.

 

“We're not going to leave,” Lincoln says. It's quiet yet firm. Grant believes him – the words spread inside his heart, but at the same time, so does the fear.

 

“I know,” he says.

 

“”But?”

 

Grant closes his eyes and rubs his face. Then he makes himself look at Lincoln again.

 

“I was afraid of becoming.... useless.”

 

“Because of the glasses?” Lincoln asks. There is no judgment in his voice. None at all.

 

“It's.... this time it's my eyes. But what's next? What's going to be the next thing that gives out?”

 

“Your eyes didn't give out,” Lincoln says softly. “They're different, they need a little bit of help, but they're still … there. And they work.”

 

Grant smiles. “Always the optimist.”

 

Lincoln reaches out with his hand and touches Grant's face. “Always,” he says. Grant closes his eyes and turns into Lincoln's palm. “I love you, dumbass. I don't care how useless you are,” he says. Grant opens his eyes. Somehow, the fear inside his heart fades away at those words. “Which you're not,” Lincoln then adds and Grant manages to laugh a little bit. Relief that washes over him feels wonderful.

 

Lincoln pulls closer, close enough so that their noses are almost touching. He's giving Grant that look that makes everything bad disappear.

 

“I love you too,” he says.

 


	23. Of coming home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The circle finally feels completed as Daisy asks Grant to do that one big thing for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks. 
> 
> Thank you for staying with me and with this story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. <3

*

 

It starts with a mildly unpleasant dream one night that wakes her up – she doesn't even remember the details of it when she wakes. She thinks she was running away from someone and calling for Grant and that there was no end to it – but when she wakes, it's the middle of the night and both Grant and Lincoln are there, next to her, sound asleep.

 

She turns to Grant, observing him as he sleeps, until her mind quiets enough and she closes her eyes, relying on what she has of her powers to sense both Lincoln and him. She gives herself over to the familiar vibrations and lets her body relax enough to fall asleep.

 

She dismisses it as just another unpleasant dream – not that she didn't have them before – and doesn't think about it, until they start coming back.

 

*

 

When she wakes up, it's to an empty bed.

 

She's disoriented to the point of not being sure, for a moment, where she is. She's breathing heavily, as the room almost spins – everything around her is quiet, the rest of the bed is cold. For a couple of moments the dream that kept her captive feels true, and there's nothing around her to dissuade her that it's not – that she's _not alone,_ that Lincoln and Grant _didn't die_ – and then finally she sees the pillows. Other two wrinkled pillows, each on one side of her. She grabs onto that bit of reality and tells herself to calm down.

 

_Then_ she hears sounds from the kitchen. And the scary thing is, only now she's able to focus on the sounds, realize they're there, and what they mean.

 

She falls back onto bed and covers her eyes with her hands.

 

It's been going on for two months now, and this dream has been the worst one so far – not because she watched Grant die before her eyes again, but because for those several horrible moments she couldn't tell that it was just that – a dream.

 

*

 

Later that day Lincoln notices that she's quiet. She _sees_ it – sees him observing her carefully, glancing at Grant to determine if he's figured it out as well. She's trying super hard around Grant, and she's not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because of the dream, and the way it felt real. Maybe it's how it plays out every time.

 

Lincoln doesn't ask her anything – but later when Grant goes out to gather branches around the yard and throw them on a pile, and then goes to stack firewood and look for something around the pickup, she starts to suspect Lincoln arranged it.

 

Once she sits by the window he sits next to her. She sighs and braces herself for this, but her anticipation of relief seems to be stronger than her unwillingness to open up to him – or anyone at all.

 

The look on his face is quietly questioning. “You know, you two are so much alike,” Lincoln says.

 

“That's a sneaky conversation starter,” Daisy observes. Really, there isn't anything at this moment that would make her want to talk about this more.

 

“That's just honesty,” he says, pulling his chair a little closer. “You both act the same way when something troubles you. The difference is, he's now less stubborn about telling me what's up.”

 

“Is he?” she smiles. Lincoln hums in agreement. Grant is now generally more approachable, more relaxed, _softer_ than she remembers him, but she hasn't exactly been in a situation where she had to convince him to talk. All their conversations somehow happened... maybe because they had to. Maybe she should give up on trying to keep the lid on everything.

 

In fact... Grant is now a lot more like her, the old her.

 

And she is so scarily similar to old him.

 

She shares this aloud. And then she says, “I feel... like it's only fair. Because I let him change me. And.... that connects us. It always did.”

 

“It does,” Lincoln agrees. Daisy remembers that he saw what's inside Grant's head. She wonders what exactly he knows, but she doesn't prod. She's not sure she could handle the knowledge right now. “You're not angry. And you're not sad. You seem tense and worried,” he tells her quietly.

 

“I've been dreaming,” she says.

 

“About what?” he asks her softly.

 

“About losing you both,” she says and pauses. “But in most of my dreams... I usually see just him. You, I've already lost. I try to save him, but it doesn't work.”

 

He listens to her quietly.

 

“I dream about someone killing him. Random people. Garrett. Coulson. And if I could just ...-” she moves her hand in a way he recognizes. She knows, because she sees it on his face. “It doesn't work.”

 

“Because your powers are gone,” he says. She nods. She keeps her eyes on Grant, working outside.

 

“He keeps reinventing himself. It's... I guess that was the only way to survive. Not just physically but -”

 

“Mentally as well,” Lincoln adds.

 

She's quiet for a couple of minutes. She wants to ask him if they ever talked about this. If he ever saw something in Grant's memories that confirmed it.

 

“I... don't know how to reinvent myself like that,” she says. “I did it once and I don't think I know how to go back. And like this...,” she looks at her hands for a moment, until Lincoln moves closer and wraps his fingers around hers.

 

“You're not useless without your powers,” he tells her. Ironic, how that topic keeps popping up, she thinks.

 

“But I'm not complete without them,” she finally says. Then she looks at him. “Maybe... maybe I just have to accept it. Maybe I just need more ...time?”

 

Lincoln stands up then. He's offering his hand and she takes it, not sure what's going to happen. Much like that time in Afterlife when he lifted her off the ground. This time he just pulls her close until she gives in and lets him hug her.

 

“We tried everything,” she says. “And they're not coming back. I want to stop hoping. But -”

 

“Not everything,” he tells her softly. She stills.

 

“What do you -”

 

“You said that Grant changed you,” he parts from her enough to lift her chin so that she can meet his eyes. “He changed me too. He _fixed_ me. There's... that. Although, if you don't want that, I can understand why.”

 

For a moment she doesn't really understand _what_ he's saying. He's smiling and looking at her softly, and stroking her hair – all the familiar things that used to soothe her into the notion that eventually things will be okay. As she lets him comfort her, she realizes what he's talking about.

 

Grant's powers.

 

“Oh,” is all she manages to say.

 

“Yeah,” he says, before he gathers her into a hug again, her face against his chest, his arms around her. The place where she can be small and hurt and frightened and nobody can ever touch her, because he won't allow it.

 

She clings onto him and wonders if her mind kept giving her all those dreams for a reason. If she kept seeing Grant, explicitly, because somehow he is the key to it all. Because he changed her once, against her will, and this time he could, if she let him? Maybe it's because she accepted his worst – and let it transform her into _him_ – and now she has the chance to accept the best that he can give her?

 

“I know it's scary,” Lincoln tells her, “and uncomfortable. And... very intimate. But if he could literally put me back together when I was dying, maybe he can fix whatever there is _left_ to fix. Your powers started to come back. That means they're not completely gone,” he says and kisses the top of his head. “Maybe it's worth the try.”

 

She holds her breath. She doesn't want to hope – because hoping for something and losing it, oh god, it's _so much worse_ than not hoping ever, not once – but it's too late. And it doesn't matter that Lincoln brought it up either – her own mind wouldn't let it be. She's already clinging onto hope.

 

“If you want to try it? I have errands to run anyway, and won't be home for couple of hours,” he tells her. If there was any sort of tension in him, she would feel it, but there isn't – he's relaxed and sure of himself and what he's offering.

 

“Lincoln -”

 

“It's something two of you have to do on your own,” he says. This time she pulls back to look at him, and when she does, he smiles.

 

“You're sure?”

 

“I want you to be happy. I want you both to be happy,” he says simply and kisses her.

 

“Now?” she asks him.

 

“Is there any better time?”

 

*

 

When Grant comes in, he doesn't suspect anything. Whatever Lincoln told him about his errands seemed convincing enough – right now he's contently taking off his coat and his boots.

 

“Want some tea?” she asks as he enters the living room area.

 

“Sure,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. He's guessing, correctly, that she wants to talk. If she's honest, having tea became her way of signaling that she wants to have a conversation, and she's thinking about how to even begin while she's pouring the tea into two cups.

 

She's not sure what makes her pause when she approaches him – maybe it's something in the way he's sitting, or the way he looks at her, all tentative and soft and somehow still slightly hesitant – but she does stop for a moment, trying to pinpoint the feeling that flashes through her. It's something sad, nostalgic; something old. Something from another time.

 

She places the cups on the table and sits next to him – he's hunching forward, his shoulders slightly drawn. His look is tentative as he reaches for the tea cup, and then, in that moment, she thinks of a whiskey glass in front of him, and then siting similarly in a forgotten SHIELD base.

 

Providence, she thinks. _Divine care or intervention_. Such a strange name for a secret base.

 

Or maybe it isn't. Maybe some kind of providence was with her back then. She looks at Grant sitting next to her, living, breathing, picking up the cup of her tea.

 

Maybe it never left.

 

She watches him as he takes a sip and smiles at her. He's not talking, he's just watching her – like he can't believe she's real, and that she's there and that they're somehow together. And she thinks, if she could undo her past, go back to one moment and just – change everything – would it be here? This moment?

 

Because this is when everything had changed, when everything that happened, everything he did prior and past this point became the definition of her. She would become everything that he wasn't; everything she _believed_ he wasn't – until her own actions stripped her bare and left her with the shadow of him, lurking at her from a mirror.

 

“I... wanted to do something,” she says. He looks up, his eyebrows knitting together as he gives her a smile and undivided attention. And she purposefully scoots closer, sideways, sits next to him the same way she did back then.

 

“What is it?” he asks and she watches his face, and how soft his eyes are, how emotions show up uncensored. How he's not trying to hide them any more. She wonders if she can ever shed her own masks. She takes his hand almost shyly, her eyes searching his for any sign of disagreement. Instead of that he reassuringly squeezes her hand in his.

 

Looking at him she tries to remember how it went. He told her about his brother, about Christian making him push Thomas into the well. He told her about his parents. He told her he wasn't a good man. He was completely, absolutely honest in that moment. It may not have been the entire truth – and she knows now _why_ he didn't tell her everything that there was to tell – but _it was the truth_ _nevertheless_.

 

And then, then she told him that he was. That he was a good man. She lifted his chin to look into his eyes. When she does the same thing now, he finally seems to realize what she's doing. The tentative tone goes away from his eyes, and he's looking at her softly, hopefully.

 

And she thinks, if only one could reverse time. But there is no such thing.... even among all the wonderful, weird, dangerous events she witnessed. You can't change your past. But what you can do? You can own it. You can reclaim it. Maybe that's how you reinvent yourself?

 

“I love you,” she says without thinking. He gasps at her words.

 

She sees how he visibly shivers, how he thickly swallows. How his entire body moves, forward, and one hand comes up to cradle the back of her head while he leans in to kiss her.

 

There's something about the way that he kisses her, that's familiar and new and exciting at the same time. It calms her and centers her and puts her on edge. She scoots closer until she winds her arms around his neck and he pulls her into his lap. It's good to be there, so close, to be with him, to _feel him breathe_. It's what she's been robbed off all those years ago, being with him like this and telling him that she loves him and feeling the weight of the world finally lift from her shoulders.

 

“I love you too,” he says as she leans her forehead against his and breathes harshly. “Skye.”

 

There's something about her old name spoken at this very instant that makes her cry. It's like slipping and falling – when she starts crying she somehow cannot stop. She cries and cries, hiding her face against his shoulder as he holds her. She wasn't aware that there were still so many tears locked inside of her, so much pain, so many regrets.

 

“Shhh,” he says. “It's good. It's okay. It's over,” he soothes.

 

“It's not. I've done it, Grant. I've ruined both of us -”

 

“Don't forget that I helped,” he tells her. “Considerably.” The calm, the slight joking tone makes her laugh, and as she fights with opposite needs to let her sadness go away and laugh at his joke, she feels she needs to kiss him again.

 

It's absolutely, overwhelmingly necessary, because she feels so raw, she feels such need and she's clawing at him, his clothes, her own; until they've taken off enough to fuck on the couch. It's hard and harsh and loud and she's seeking for something, she wants something for him and he's doing his best to give it to her as they move.

 

“Grant,” she breathes as she urges him to slow down. He looks at her. They're desperately holding onto one another. “Fix me,” she says.

 

“What?”

 

“Fix me,” she pleads, her hand against his that's resting against her face. Just as it should. “Fix me. Like you wanted. Please. Please Grant.”

 

“Skye,” he whispers, his body going still as he searches her eyes.

 

“I'm certain. I'm _asking_ you. I know what it entails,” she says as she still slowly moves above him. They both breathe hard and moan and he seems to take a good look at her, all of her and then kiss her with everything he's got before he takes her face into his hands.

 

“Skye. It... this could be very unpleasant,” he tells her. She lightly shakes her head. It's her moment for dark humor.

 

“Do you honestly think only your head contains fucked up, no good, dark stuff?” He smiles. It's so gentle and kind and full of understanding. “I _trust_ you.”

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

“Okay?”

 

“God. _Yes._ Okay,.”

 

And with that he kisses her once more and then ….

 

For a moment it doesn't feel like anything. She's just looking into his eyes – and then suddenly it's like she's forcibly pulled out of her skin and into his mind and as the images flash between them – her memories, his memories, _their_ memories – she doesn't try to pull herself away even though part of her wants to.

 

It's like being tied to Hive, only more intense, more personal as she feels him reach _into_ her – doing _something_ – and there is nowhere she could hide, no possibility of shielding every single fear of rejection she ever felt, each and every lonely memory her mind has ever put away; every single instance she felt sadness or grief or hate or regret. He can see all of it, and still she feels him holding on, both physically and beyond that; as she's crashing through the well of his memories – the cold nights in the woods, the cold reality of his family home, the cold purpose within SHIELD.

 

Cold.

 

So. Much. Cold.

 

She cannot let him be cold any more.

 

“Skye,” he says and in that moment she feels something – as if he's grabbing on onto something and pulling. “Yes. Skye. _Look at me_ ,” he's saying and she's staring into his eyes, feeling every point of their connection, every spot where their bodies touch. “Skye. Let it. Let go,” he says.

 

For a moment, she doesn't understand.

 

He's holding on, he's pulling, her hips are swaying into his and she still somehow feels that as well, feels the pressure build and she thinks – yes – and with one last tug she closes her eyes and lets him pull her wherever he wants to.

 

It feels like everything around her exploding, except, it's not outside. It starts with the invisible thread he was holding onto, spreading through her body the tension let loose and set into freedom in every single muscle of her body until she can feel with all of herself, with every finger and every toe and every single bit of her skin -

 

The vibrations.

 

Wonderful, amazing, _overwhelming_ cacophony of the world around her, of her own body and his as they're both breathing so harshly and trying to calm down. Vibrations. The breath of the whole world around her, flowing through her again. Just as it used to be, just as she remembers.

 

“Oh god,” she says, slumped against his chest, collapsed on top of him as he's leaning back into the couch. She opens her eyes and the mugs on the coffee table are shaking. “You did it. _Oh my God, Grant. You did it._ ”

 

*

 

When Lincoln comes home it's late – late by Alaskan standards, as the darkness is slowly creeping from the horizon, and approaching the woods. He powers down the engine and focuses onto the sound coming from the outside – shouting and laughing and daisy calling Grant's name.

 

It sounds good. No matter what happened between them, and no matter which way she decided, it's good.

 

And that's good for him.

 

He gets out, locks the truck and walks around the house, to the clearing covered with snow. It's still knee deep, purposefully left that way so they could do this – Daisy trying to attack Grant with snowballs as he's cleverly hiding behind a pile of chopped wood.

 

“Get out and fight like a man!”

 

“I am content to hide like a man, thank you,” he's saying.

 

“Spoilsport,” she's saying.

 

“Hey, here I am, walking like a man,” Lincoln says. She has her back turned, so she has to turn around to face him. There's such huge, gigantic smile on her face. “Or, you know... a target?”

 

It's amazing.

 

For a moment she lifts a snowball – a big one at that – and Lincoln is momentarily regretting his decision – but then she lifts her other hand and opens her palm and _pushes_ -

 

Suddenly he's lying flat on his back, thrown backwards into snow by the sheer force of _her_.

 

“Oh my God,” he says.

 

“They're back,” she's saying, and in a moment she's next to him and pulling him back up to his feet. “They're _back_. Grant... he fixed me. They're back.”

 

She looks at her hands in a way that reminds him of the first time he met her. The first time when she realized that her powers were wonderful. That they were amazing, and that they were opportunities, and that her power was a gift. He opens his arms and she falls into his hug, and across the clearing Grant comes out from his shelter, smiling at the sight of him and Daisy hugging.

 

“Welcome home,” Grant says.

 

Yes, Lincoln thinks. This is exactly it. This is exactly how coming home feels like.

 

 

 

 


End file.
